Finding Fraternity
by incurableromantic521
Summary: (This story is for diehard Richard Dean Anderson fans only.) Jack & Mac are brothers, 15 years apart in age, who have issues with each other. When their father, Pete, mysteriously disappears, however, their Uncle George calls them home, and they must learn to set aside their differences and learn to work together to try to find him. Along the way, they fall in love.
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

I guess you could say there was no love lost between my brother Jack and me. He was fifteen years old when I was born and had spent his life up till then as an only child. It wasn't that our parents hadn't _tried_ to have more kids in between—they did. But Mom had a condition that made getting pregnant difficult, if not impossible. So, Jack pretty much thought he had the folks all to himself and that he always _would_ have.

Then the impossible happened. Jack had all of seven months to get used to the idea that he was going to be a brother. If they'd had ultrasound technology back then, he'd've probably begged Mom to get one. He was dying to know whether I was going to be a girl or a boy. A sister he could've lived with. But just when things had started to get interesting between him and Dad—I guess these days they'd call it "male bonding"—the possibility that he might have some competition for the old man's attention did _not_ sit well.

How do I know all this? Because Jack told me, that's how. No, it wasn't back when I was a toddler and he was a teenager with a chip on his shoulder. It was, in actual fact, not that long ago. It all began the day Jack got an email and I got a text message on my cellphone. . . .

 **(*)**

"Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise," said Uncle George. "I was wondering if you'd both show up."

It was easy to tell that Uncle George was Dad's younger brother. They were both short, squat, red-haired and balding. Unlike Jack and me, they'd always been pretty close.

The message my brother and I had received had come from Uncle George. It simply stated that something had happened to Dad and that we needed to come home immediately. Being dutiful sons—despite our issues with each other—we both took off for Denver as soon as we were able to pack a bag and leave.

Jack, a Navy pilot for thirty years who was now an admiral with a desk job at Homeland Security, decided to fly. And me? I've dabbled in a lot of things. I drove the Interstate all the way from L.A. in my beat-up, old, red Jeep. It took me two and a half days to get to Denver. Due to some urgent business at Homeland, it took Jack that long to get there, too.

Coincidentally, we both arrived at the old homestead—where Uncle George had asked us to meet him—at around the same time: me in my old, red Jeep and Jack in a new, black Cherokee that he'd rented at the airport.

As we leapt out of our respective vehicles, we said simultaneously, "I like the Jeep," and traded ironic smiles at the thought that we actually had something in common. Uncle George's silver '89 Lincoln was in the driveway. We squeezed past it as we headed for the front door.

"Your hair is shorter," Jack commented.

"Yours is grayer," I returned.

"I grew up," I said.

"I got older," said Jack.

Then, never one for formalities, Jack addressed our uncle as we approached him, saying, "Yeah, George, we're both here. Now, what was that message you sent us about something happening to Dad?"

"Let's all go on inside and I'll explain," Uncle George replied, nodding his head toward the front door. Jack and I looked at each other. It had been years since either of us had set foot in that house. Not since Mom's funeral had we been able to bring ourselves even so far as the doorstep.

We'd kept in touch with Dad by phone (me), email (Jack), and greeting cards (both), always with a promise to come home for a visit sometime. But, it had never happened; and, if the feelings of foreboding I was having were any indication, there was a good chance that it never would. . . I shivered; so, I noticed, did Jack. And there wasn't even a hint of a breeze in the air. And it was midsummer. It was probably just nerves, or something. Anyway, the only kinds of spooks I've ever believed in are the Government kind. . ..

 **(**)**

 _Despite the fact that my kid brother has the IQ of an orange, he's pretty much got things straight, up to this point. Uncle George emailed me because he knows I have a computer on my desk at Homeland, and it's the safest way to get in touch with me. He sent a text message to Mac because my brother never seems to be in one place very long, and his cellphone is always with him. Although I've been forced to use them for my job, I'm not really fond of computers, cellphones, palm pilots or any other thing that requires taking a college course or studying an instruction manual before you can properly operate it._

 _. . . and I've never been really fond of Mac, either. All that was about to change, though. I mean, when you think about it, I went off to Annapolis right about the time he was starting to say complete sentences, so there wasn't much time or opportunity for us to really get to know each other. Over the years, as he grew up, I grew older._

 _After Annapolis, I got married to a girl named Liz Howell, had a kid, and lost them both when my son drowned in the Pacific Ocean. . .._

 _I was stationed at a seaside naval base at the time, and Joey loved the water. He and his mother had gone to the beach—which they did about twice a week, just to hang out—when Joey decided to go in for a swim. It was early in the season, so the water was still pretty high, but Joey was a good swimmer, so we didn't worry all that much about him. He was ten years old at the time . . . kind of small for his age (since his mom is fairly small-boned and I'm not especially husky myself); and he went out a little farther than he should have. Liz, busy reading her favorite magazine, didn't notice; and, before she knew it, our son was caught in an undertow. He bobbed to the surface and yelled for help, but by the time anyone was able to reach him, he'd gone under for the third time. He wasn't big enough or strong enough to survive._

 _Joey was a kid who enjoyed swimming in the ocean; the ocean is a dangerous place. Period. It was nobody's fault . . . but my wife had just lost her only child. So, she had to blame_ _ **someone**_ _and_ _**chose**_ _to blame me. If I hadn't been stationed at a seaside naval base, she said, it never would've happened._

 _Unwilling to take the blame for my posting—which certainly_ _ **wasn't**_ _my doing—I blamed her for taking him to the beach and not keeping a better watch on him while they were there. Deep inside she felt I was right, but she couldn't live with the guilt if she actually had to accept the blame, so she chose to lay it on me instead. It didn't occur to either of us to blame Joey for not having sense enough not to go out so far. He was just a kid. You can't blame your own child for his own death—especially when he's only ten years old. So, of course, a rift formed between Liz and me that was irreparable. The pain and guilt were too much for either of us to bear, so we parted ways. Liz eventually remarried, although it was years before she was ready to have another kid. . . As for me, I focused on my career. Up in the air, in an F-14 Tomcat, I could keep the real world and all its pain at bay—for a little while, anyway._

 _And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what became of me after I left home. Since then, as Mac previously mentioned, I've retired from active service and am now a desk jockey at Homeland Security. I'm still wearing the uniform, but it's mostly just to get the subordinates to follow orders. A lot of 'em are civilians, but when they see a high-ranking, highly-decorated officer (in full uniform) looking at them as though he means business, they tend to be more respectful than they are to the suits. "The suits," they think, have_ _ **always**_ _been_ _pencil pushers and_ _always_ _ **will be**_ _pencil pushers. At least "the uniforms" have some field experience. At least they have some idea of what it's like out there in "the real world."_

 _Maybe; but even us flea-bitten, hard-nosed vets are up against it when it comes to fighting terrorism. . . Hey, I'd rather go back to fighting the Cold War with the Soviets than to have to deal with all this tightened—and heightened—security that's been implemented to keep another 9/11 from happening. Not to mention trying to gather intell that might help the men overseas who are fighting the terrorists on their own turf. There are times I wish I was_ _ **really**_ _old enough to retire._

 _Anyway, I knew something was wrong the minute I found the email from Uncle George. Except for the occasional Christmas card, we hadn't communicated with each other since my son's funeral, although that's probably more_ _ **my**_ _fault than his. I haven't exactly been a ray of sunshine in recent years. But that's beside the point._

 _Back to Uncle George. Yeah. A cool guy, all in all. Very devoted to Dad. And my gut told me that whatever had happened to my old man, it meant I'd probably never see him again. What I hadn't counted on was dealing with my kid brother._

 _Mac had been ring bearer at my wedding, but only because Mom had insisted. He hadn't wanted to do it. It had felt like a complete sham to both of us, since we were virtual strangers to each other. Of course, being only seven, Mac wasn't able to put it into those exact words. . . . If he'd been a child of the '80's, he probably would've said, "This is_ **so** _bogus!" And it was. Sort of. Truth is, he did a darned good job—didn't trip, drop the ring, or anything. I was actually kind of proud of him. But that was then._

 _When I saw him twenty years later at Mom's funeral, his hair was long—well, long-ish, with, you know, a kind of shag at the back and bangs that really weren't . . . bangs. It was almost more of a hairy fringe that sort of fluffed out over his forehead. I half expected him to show up wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. As far as I knew, that had always been his wardrobe of choice. But he loved Mom way too much to be that disrespectful, so he actually wore a suit. The thought occurred to me that maybe he'd_ _ **rented**_ _it, since I was pretty sure he didn't_ _ **own**_ _one._

 _Sorry. Where my brother is concerned, I tend to get carried away._

 _Anyway, we didn't say two words to each other either at the funeral service or at the burial afterward. Not until the luncheon back at the house did we actually manage to speak to each other. As I recall, I asked Mac, "How's it goin'?" and he replied (with a shrug), "It's hangin'. You?" and I said, "I got a promotion last month . . ." Mac then nodded and said, "I know, Dad rubbed my nose in it," and walked away with his plateful of cold cuts and condiments. That was the last conversation the two of us had had._

 _And now we were back home again, this time with Uncle George, waiting to find out if we were orphans . . . or if Dad was just M.I.A. . . ._

 **(***)**

So, Uncle George opened the door and we all went inside. There was a sofa and two armchairs. Uncle George took the sofa. Jack and I each took a chair, which sat at opposite ends of the coffee table. Jack tossed his hat (I believe the military types call it a "cover") onto the coffee table before sitting down. Uncle George sat on the edge of the center-most cushion of the sofa. His legs were spread apart, his arms rested on his thighs, his hands hung down between his knees, and his fingers were loosely laced together. He looked back and forth from me to Jack as he spoke to us.

"As you both know, your father was Editor-in-Chief of _The Denver Standard-Gazette_ for twenty years. When he was forced to retire, he _bought_ the paper and became its publisher: He wanted to keep his hand in and stay on top of things, and he wasn't about to take retirement lying down. Although the job of Editor-in-Chief was given to someone else, he left standing orders that anything of moment or significant import should be brought to his attention by whatever means . . . depending upon the time of day and his location at that time.

"Well, something of moment came up about six weeks ago. He called me one afternoon and we had dinner together that evening, during which he told me that one of the young hotshot reporters at the _Standard-Gazette_ had gone to the editor with a story that was hotter 'n hell on the Fourth of July. Pete told the editor, who in turn told the young reporter (whose name is James—or Jimmy—Kelsey) _**not**_ to pursue the story—that it was too dangerous. They were both told that unless they wanted their journalistic careers—and their lives—to be cut very short, they should just leave it alone. In order to make certain that the boy did just that, Pete told the editor to take the file from Jimmy and to make certain that every bit of pertinent information he had gathered _up to that point_ was confiscated. Everything was downloaded from Jimmy's computer onto a flash drive and then deleted from the hard drive. After getting the flash drive from the editor, your father downloaded the information onto his _**own**_ computer."

"Let me guess," Jack said. "Dad decided to try to pursue the story himself, despite how dangerous it was."

"Now, why," I asked sarcastically, "would Dad wanna do a thing like that?"

"If you two would can the commentary—"

"Sorry, Uncle George," we said in semi-unison.

"But, yes, Jack, you're right. Your father _did_ decide to pursue the matter himself, and it _was_ dangerous. That evening at dinner he told me the whole story—everything Jim Kelsey had learned. It was a bombshell."

"And?" Jack prompted.

"If you think I'm going to be foolish enough to tell it to you two boys, you've got another think coming. I haven't had a good night's sleep since your father told it all to me, and I'm far from being a coward."

"Then, what are we doing here?" I asked. "I get the feeling you want us to help in some way, but I don't see how we can if we don't know what's going on."

"What he said," Jack agreed. "Besides that, George, I'm an admiral in the United States Navy. I work at Homeland Security. I've fought in three wars."

"Not all of them were wars," I said brilliantly.

"Not officially," Jack grumbled, obviously having heard that argument before, "but a bullet is a bullet and a bomb is a bomb, and people die either way."

"If you two are through . . .!"

"Cut to the chase, Uncle George," I said. "Jack's an experienced, uh . . . What exactly are you, Jack? You're not a soldier; you're not a pilot anymore . . ."

"I'm an experienced military man with ties to Intelligence."

"Glad to hear you got some from somewhere. . . ."

"That's _enough_!" roared Uncle George. He sighed. "Your father told me that, as far as he knew, you two had never had a real conversation. The way you're carrying on, anyone would think you'd been throwing barbs at each other your entire lives!" He shook his head. "It's against my better judgment, but I'm going to tell you what young Jimmy Kelsey found out."

Jack and I were on the edges of our seats, waiting for the shoe to drop.

"Well?" Jack prompted.

"It seems," said Uncle George, "that someone close to the President—not someone in the Cabinet, and not one of the Joint Chiefs, but nevertheless someone in the White House who has access to the President—has been selling secrets to Al Qaeda."


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

"Whoa!" Jack said. "Someone close to the president has been selling intel to Al Qaeda? How's that possible? How could my people not know that?"

Uncle George shrugged. "You're the one working in Homeland Security. You tell me."

Jack shook his head. "It doesn't wash. If it were true, I'd know."

"And just how would you know?" Uncle George asked. "Do you have someone in the White House?"

"Maybe," Jack hedged.

"He does," I inferred. "He's just not authorized to admit it."

"Be that as it may," said Uncle George, "Jim Kelsey's evidence is compelling. Whoever you've got in the White House—speaking hypothetically, of course—should be advised of the situation and told to keep his or her eyes and ears open. I guarantee you, someone is being duplicitous."

"From a professional standpoint," said Jack, "I feel like I've just been splashed with a bucket of ice cold water— _metaphorically_ speaking, of course. But, despite your conviction that a traitor is lurking in the White House, Uncle George, I'm not about to risk my operative's cover—or life—without gathering some intel of my own. I need irrefutable _proof_ , not just 'compelling evidence.' Do you have access to Jimmy Kelsey's findings? I'd like to check them out myself. Maybe they'll give us a clue as to who might've grabbed Dad."

Uncle George poked the side of his head with his finger. "The key to finding where your father hid Kelsey's evidence is up here," he said. Jack and I looked at each other. "Your father was well aware that I have a photographic memory. He let me read the clues he left for the two of you and then he destroyed them."

"What about the flash drive and his computer's hard drive?" I asked.

"The flash drive was destroyed, the hard drive wiped clean."

"Uncle George," I said, "this all sounds a bit too . . . cloak-and-daggerish—not at all Dad's style. He's always been straightforward: never pulling punches, never hiding in the shadows. Besides, if there really is someone selling secrets to Al Qaeda, why didn't he just tell Jack and let Homeland handle it? Or he could've reported it to the Feds or the CIA."

Uncle George sighed. "Even though Kelsey's evidence is compelling, it's by no means verifiable _proof._ Your father believed that if it were indeed true and he let it be known in the proper circles that he had evidence, the proof would be forthcoming: Nothing bespeaks guilt quite as much as the kidnapping of the person holding the evidence."

"In other words," Jack put in, "Dad used himself as bait, and his disappearance is all the proof we have that Jimmy Kelsey was really on to something."

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. "Oh, this is just great!" I moaned.

"And what are we supposed to do about it?" Jack asked on behalf of both of us.

Uncle George sat up straight and looked at Jack in surprise. "Well, I would've thought that was obvious: look for the evidence and try to find out what happened to your father."

"Without a single clue as to where to begin?" I asked, agitated.

"I told you," said Uncle George, poking his head again, "everything you need in order to find the location of the evidence is right up here."

"The heck with that," Jack said. "We oughta talk directly to Jimmy Kelsey himself. He's bound to remember at least _some_ of what he collected. . . Of course, if that would endanger his life, I could have him put in protective custody, or witness protection or . . . something."

"I'm afraid it's too late for that," said Uncle George. "Jimmy has disappeared, too."

"Oh, great!" I moaned again, rubbing my forehead with the thumb and fingers of my right hand.

"So, we have two missing persons whose disappearances may or may not be linked to treasonous acts purportedly perpetrated by someone in the White House; and we have no physical evidence to support anything!" Jack jumped out of his seat and hit the wing of the chair with his fist. "That's just great. So, what do we do now?—sit here and take notes while you dictate Dad's clues to us?"

"Why not? It won't take long: there's not much to dictate. But, it's all in code, so deciphering it could be difficult. Besides," Uncle George asked with a shrug, "do you boys have anything better to do?"

"Yes, Uncle George, I do!" said Jack fervently. "I have a _country_ to protect! I don't have time to screw around with nonexistent paperwork-slash-evidence that's hidden in a secret location! If there really is a traitor in the White House—and I'm not convinced that's true—we don't have time to take dictation while you give us a line-by-line recitation of how and where to find Jimmy Kelsey's supposed evidence!"

"Uh, bro," I broke in, "I took some shorthand in high school—mostly to meet girls . . . _you_ know. _I_ could take the dictation while you run over to the paper and see if anyone _there_ knows anything. There might still be a hard copy of the evidence somewhere. Maybe Jimmy Kelsey didn't obey Dad's orders and he actually _kept_ a copy somewhere—just in case. Maybe that's why _he_ was kidnapped, too."

"That's a lot of 'maybes,' but you do have a point. All right," Jack said, picking up his "cover" from where he'd placed it on the coffee table and putting it back on his head. "You stay here and take dictation from Uncle George and I'll head over to the _Standard-Gazette_ and see if anybody there knows anything. Uncle George, any ideas who I might talk to?"

"Yes. A woman named Darla Finley. She's been Editor-in-Chief at the paper for a few months now. She is, in fact, the one who called me when she didn't hear anything from Pete for three days. She knew we'd had dinner together and wondered if he'd said anything to me about where he planned to go."

"How much does she know?" Jack asked.

"Not much, and it's probably better that way. Your father insisted that she not peruse the documents she downloaded from Jimmy Kelsey's computer: no sense in putting _her_ life in jeopardy, too. But she can help you look through your father's files and see if there are any clues as to what might've happened to him."

Jack nodded. "Darla Finley. Got it." He turned to go.

"Oh, and Jack . . ." said Uncle George slyly.

Jack looked at the old man expectantly, not saying anything.

"She's a widow and close to your age . . ."

"Goodbye, Uncle George," said my brother. "Don't wait up."

"So, uh, Uncle George," I said as Jack was leaving, "do you have a girl for me, too?"


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

 _I'm not sure what I was expecting when I went to the_ **Standard-Gazette** _looking for Darla Finley. The fact that I was totally unaware of how much the place had changed over the past twenty years is evidence of how long it'd been since I was last there._

 _The main room in which the bulk of the "written" work was done was wide open and huge; that much_ _ **hadn't**_ _changed. But the desks were bigger now—and newer; and all of them were equipped with a computer._

 _I remembered where the Editor-in-Chief's office had been back when Dad held that position, and I made my way through the maze of desks, heading in that general direction._

 _As was undoubtedly made evident by my brother's mention of my "cover," I was wearing my uniform. Being an admiral in the Navy has its perks when flying, but it can also have its drawbacks if there are any passengers seated nearby who are angry at the military in general, regardless of what branch of the service one might be in. As a desk jockey at Homeland Security, I was allowed some discretion as to whether to wear my uniform or civilian clothes whenever I was not on duty. Since my departure had been delayed due to urgent business, I left D.C. pretty much on the fly, so I really didn't have time to go home and change. I'd had my luggage packed for_ _ **two**_ _ **days**_ _before I actually got the chance to leave. I'd been afraid I wouldn't make it on time, since Uncle George had given us a time and a place to meet, and I was lucky to get away when I did. . .._

 _Anyway, the uniform caused a bit of a stir as I walked through the newsroom. One reporter—who appeared to be in his late thirties—jumped to his feet, stood at attention, saluted, and said (as I passed his desk), "Admiral Beckham,_ _ **sir**_ _! Welcome to the_ **Standard-Gazette** _,_ _ **sir**_ _!"_

" _At ease, sailor," I said, trying not to smile. The young man—young by_ _ **my**_ _standards, anyway—slid into "at ease" stance, but continued to behave as though he were in_ _ **my**_ _office, instead of the other way around._

" _Former lieutenant Lionel Lerner, at your service, sir!"_

" _The key word here is 'former,' son. Have you and I served together, Mr. Lerner?"_

" _Yes, sir. In the first Gulf War. I was in one of the squadrons you commanded. It was an honor to serve with you, sir, and it's a privilege to see you here. Your father has always spoken of you with a lot of pride whenever he's come in. I was sorry to hear that he's been kidnapped."_

" _Me, too," I said with a nod. "Tell me, Lerner: Is my father's disappearance general knowledge around the newsroom?"_

 _He shook his head. "No, sir. It's just that . . . I overheard them talking—your father and Mrs. Finley . . . Danger . . . Disappearance . . . I didn't understand it all, but it sounded to me like he was_ _ **expecting**_ _to be abducted."_

 _I nodded and asked somewhat skeptically, "Really?"_

" _I know it sounds ridiculous, but . . . that's the way it seemed."_

" _Well, I'm headed to Mrs. Finley's office now to ask her a few questions . . . find out how much she knows. If my father_ _ **was**_ _expecting to be kidnapped, I'm sure she'll tell me."_

" _Yes, sir."_

" _Carry on, Lerner; and thank you for the heads-up."_

" _No problem, sir."_

 _The former lieutenant returned to his chair but didn't return to his computer until I had turned away and started heading for Mrs. Finley's office. Once I arrived there, I was in for another surprise._

 _The office was a glass-enclosed room, about ten feet by ten feet square. The door was wooden, though, and it opened before I even had a chance to knock. The woman who opened it smiled and said, "Hello, Jack. Long time no see."_

" _Darla McIntyre . . . " I mumbled, my mouth dropping open slightly._

 _She laughed. "Darla McIntyre_ _ **Finley**_ _," she corrected me. "Come in and sit down, Jack . . . if you dare."_

 _I went in and sat down across the desk from the woman I had once known as a young girl named Darla McIntyre. The door closed of its own accord behind me._

" _I'm surprised you recognized me, Jack," Darla said, still smiling. "It's been thirty-five years."_

" _I'd've known you anywhere, Darla," I told her. "You really haven't changed all that much."_

" _I was fourteen when you left for Annapolis and eighteen when you got married. I certainly_ _ **hope**_ _I've changed—at least a little—since then._ _ **You**_ _certainly have. You used to smile more—and your hair wasn't quite so gray. . . But then,_ _ **mine's**_ _a lot grayer now, too." She was right about that, although the gray didn't look half-bad on her._

 _Darla McIntyre Finley—five-foot-three, with bluish-green hazel eyes and long, brown hair that reached to the small of her back—was wearing a dark brown skirt and a beige blouse (which were about all I noticed at the time; I'm not really into accessories). She had her hair clipped back behind her ears, so that you could see the gray streaks in the under layers of her hair that would not otherwise have been visible. There were only a few sparse streaks of gray here and there in the upper layer. I thought it fortunate for her that she could hide most of her gray if she chose to. And I had to admire her willingness to let it show. Most women of my acquaintance that were anywhere near her age either colored their hair or used Lady Grecian Formula, or something. Despite the gray, she didn't look anywhere near her actual age—unlike me._

 _Darla still wore glasses, which curse had come upon her at a very young age, although I'd heard that she wore contacts for a while, undoubtedly giving them up when she became a mother. I'd been told by some (who had reason to know) that it can be painful to wear contact lenses when your eyes are tired; and moms don't always get a lot of sleep—especially if they have little ones that wake up in the middle of the night. Despite the glasses (or maybe even because of them, since "designer" frames were now available), Darla was a very attractive woman. She had a delightful smile that I remembered well and hadn't seen in a long time._

 _I shook my head, mildly stunned. "Darla McIntyre, the little girl next door! Who would've ever thought that after all these years you'd end up working for my old man?"_

" _He_ _**owns**_ _the paper, Jack; he doesn't_ _ **run**_ _it—although he likes to_ _ **think**_ _he does."_

" _Meaning that, even though he's the publisher, you still do pretty much what you want."_

" _Most of the time, yes." Her words and her tone seemed somewhat guarded._

" _Darla, I'm getting some weird vibes from you. Uncle George sent me here to ask for your help in locating Dad. But I have a feeling that's not going to happen—at least, not in the way Uncle George implied. . . So, what's going on?" I asked pointblank._

 _Darla bit her lip. "I'm not supposed to tell you, Jack. Your father ordered me not to."_

" _Why? Is he afraid I'll get myself killed?"_

" _No, not really," she replied, shaking her head._

 _I shook_ _ **my**_ _head, too. "The more I hear, the more confused I get; so, I'm going to ask you one more time:_ **What's going on** _?"_

 _Darla sighed. "I really wish I could tell you, Jack. I'm torn between loyalty to your father and being honest with you. That's a pretty tough call to make."_

" _My father wants you to lie to me, is that what you're saying?"_

 _She nodded slowly, deliberately. "Yes."_

" _Look, Darla, just answer me one question: Has my father been abducted or not? Former lieutenant Lerner out there seems to be under the impression that Dad knew something was going to happen to him. Is that or is it not accurate?"_

 _Darla bit her lip and looked pensive. Then she seemed to get an idea. "Have you had lunch yet, Jack?" she asked._

" _Lunch? No. It was still morning when I left the house. Why?"_

" _It's nearly noon now. I know a cozy little café not far from here that serves great lunches . . ."_

" _Are we going to talk during lunch?" I asked, looking at Darla slightly askance—and, I hoped, meaningfully._

" _I thought we might play a round of 'Twenty Questions.' Your father ordered me not to tell you what's really going on; but the fact of the matter is, I can't lie to you, Jack. I never could."_

"' _Twenty Questions,' huh?" I acknowledged, nodding. "Sounds reasonable. I can find out the facts of the situation without your actually coming right out and telling me anything. Good plan; great moral loophole."_

 _She blushed. "That's_ _ **all**_ _it is: a loophole. . . I'm not comfortable with it; but, as I said, I can't_ _ **lie**_ _to you, either. Your father stuck me between a rock and a hard place. All I can do is give you a hammer and chisel in the form of 'Twenty Questions' and let you chip away."_

" _All righty, then. Let's go have lunch."_

" _I'll drive," she told me as she took her shoulder bag out of a bottom drawer of her desk. "That way, if, at some point during the course of our 'game' you decide you need a drink or two, I'll be able to get us back here in one piece."_

" _I don't usually drink this early in the day."_

" _I believe you," said Darla, nodding. "But, once you figure out what's going on—presuming you ask the right questions—you may decide you_ _ **need**_ _one."_

 _I frowned. I felt my brow furrow. "I'm liking the sound of this less and less."_

 _Darla nodded again as she led the way out of her office. "I understand; and I'll do my best to alleviate your confusion—bound, of course, by the rules of the game."_

" _Nothing but 'yes' or 'no' questions, right?" I asked as Darla locked the door behind us._

" _Right. But I must warn you that I may not know the answers to all of your questions."_

" _Duly noted. . . What kind of a car do you drive, by the way?"_

" _A Ford Taurus. I know: they don't get as good of gas mileage as some other makes and models; but I like the way they handle, and they're easy to drive."_

" _Automatic?"_

" _Of course. I was always too afraid of stripping gears to want to learn to drive a stick. Besides, maneuvering through city traffic is difficult enough without having to worry about shifting on top of it. I know my limitations, and I'm a tad neurotic. So, I take the easy way."_

 _We had reached the elevator by this time, and Darla led me to the parking garage. Her Taurus was a shiny black '99. She said she preferred the older models because they were roomier than the new ones, and she liked the dashboard layout better, too. She'd been driving a Taurus since '87, making a trade-in about every five years—until '02. She had looked at the newer models, but, as she'd said, they were smaller and not as user-friendly in her estimation. So, she'd bought a '99 instead and was taking especially good care of it so that it would last her a long while. I admired that. It showed that, despite the fact that it didn't get especially good gas mileage, she was still practical about it in other ways._

 _During the course of the drive, I told Darla what was going on back home, with Uncle George giving Mac "clues" to the whereabouts of the so-called "evidence."_

 _She smiled. "Your dad told me he was going to get his brother to help. He just didn't say how." She shook her head. "Poor Mac!"_

"' _Poor Mac'?"_

 _Darla blushed. "I'm sure you'll understand why I said that by the time we finish playing the game."_

" _I sincerely hope so, 'cause I'm getting really . . ._ _ **upset**_ _by this whole business."_

 _We reached the aforementioned café—which bore the unlikely moniker "Raven's Roost"—right about then. Raven, it turned out, was the owner of the place. There was a portrait of him on a wall near the entrance, but Darla didn't pause long enough for me to get a good look at it._

 _The place was about as informal as it gets: there was no hostess. We wound our way through the large, open area that was the main dining room and entered a smaller, more enclosed room that was very probably used for private parties and banquets. In here, Darla explained, we could talk more intimately._

" _I'm_ _ **so**_ _glad they don't allow smoking in restaurants here in Denver anymore," said Darla. "It really is a foul habit, and it ruins the dining experience for those of us who_ _ **don't**_ _smoke. In some places, even having separate non-smoking sections wasn't enough. The rooms were sometimes too small, or too close together . . . or both."_

" _I totally agree," I said, as we approached a table in a corner. I then did my gentlemanly duty, pulling Darla's chair out for her before taking my own seat. "Too many of the people I've associated with in the military over the years have smoked—cigars mostly—and I really_ , _**really**_ _don't like it."_

" _You were an athlete, Jack; and most athletes with any sense don't smoke. They know it's too injurious to their health and can affect their performance," she said. "Personally, I'm allergic to tobacco smoke—or terribly sensitive to it, anyway. I read an article in_ The Reader's Digest _once that said you can't actually be_ _ **allergic**_ _to cigarette smoke—only_ _ **irritated**_ _by it. Either way, it makes me cough and sneeze."_

" _Reason enough to avoid it," I commented, nodding. I reached for a menu. There were four of them, standing up between the napkin holder and the sugar dispenser. "So, what's good to eat in this place?"_

" _Just about everything," Darla replied, "—or so I've heard. But, you know me: I've always been finicky. . . I usually get the quarter-pound burger (stripped down); or a toasted ham 'n' cheese sandwich; or some chicken strips." She shrugged. "It depends on my mood."_

" _How's the Swiss steak?"_

" _Your father seems to like it . . ."_

" _You've had lunch here with him before?"_

 _Darla nodded. "At least once a week. He and Raven are old friends. He believes in supporting his friends in any way he can."_

 _I nodded. "That sounds like Dad. But if they really are old friends, I should probably at least know who the guy is. The name 'Raven' doesn't ring any bells, though."_

" _He may use that name only for professional purposes," Darla suggested._

 _I nodded. "Possibly. I'll have to take a closer look at the portrait on my way out."_

 _A waitress finally turned up. She was young, sassy, and wearing way too much makeup. "Hello, Mrs. Finley. It's good to see you again. Who's your guest today?"_

" _This is Admiral Jack Beckham, Julie," Darla said._

" _You're one of the old man's sons?" Julie the waitress asked._

" _Indeed I am."_

" _And you're the one who works for Homeland Security, right?"_

" _That's two in a row you've gotten right."_

 _Julie beamed. "What can I get for you, Admiral?"_

" _The Swiss steak, with lots of mushrooms and onions. And French fries. And a Coke. Diet, if you have it."_

 _Darla sniggered. "What's so funny?" I asked._

" _I've never understood why it is that men who like to drink beer—which is loaded with calories—invariably order diet soda."_

" _You know, I've never really thought about that, either," I replied, puzzled by my own seemingly contradictory behavior. "But, how do you know I drink beer?"_

" _You were drinking beer with your dad while I was still in high school, Jack. I assume you still do."_

" _So then, you didn't find out about my . . ._ _ **habits**_ _by doing a background check on me before returning to Denver . . .?" I asked flippantly while trying not to smile._

 _But_ _ **Darla**_ _smiled. She knew I was teasing. Nevertheless, she seemed to feel the need to defend herself. Taking on a more serious demeanor, she said, "Your father sent for me, Jack—offered me the job at the_ **Gazette**.. .

" _My husband died about fifteen months ago. My kids are all married now, and I still haven't gotten used to being alone. And since I was_ _ **happily**_ _married, I hadn't thought about_ _ **you**_ _for years—at least, not_ _ **seriously**_ _. But then, your dad—" She broke off abruptly._

" _My dad what?"_

" _I was about to give too much away. Nothing more until we start playing the game."_

" _A game?" said Julie. "Ooh! That sounds like fun!"_

" _I'm afraid you don't get to play along, Julie," Darla said. Then she placed her order—a diplomatic way of reminding the waitress that she had a job to do. "I'll have the chicken strips, with corn on the cob and waffle fries—and some lemonade to drink."_

 _Caught off-guard, Julie wrote the order quickly. "Got it," she said. Then, thankfully, she left._

" _So," said Darla, leaning on the table with her arms flat in front of her and looking at me directly, "what's your first question?"_

 _I had given my questions some thought on the way to the café; but, since I didn't know what the answers to the first four or five might be, I didn't know where to go from there. However, the most important question of all was (of course), "Has my dad actually been abducted?"_

 _Darla shook her head. "No," she said._

 _Naturally, I wanted an explanation. Darla knew I would, which is why we were playing this ludicrous game. She couldn't give me any detailed explanations; that would've been against Dad's orders. I wanted to ask her what the whole mess with Uncle George and Jimmy Kelsey was all about if Dad wasn't really in any danger; but that wasn't a yes or no question. I sighed._

" _Is there really someone in the White House who's selling secrets to Al Qaeda?"_

" _I don't know. I suppose there_ _ **could**_ _be . . ."_

" _But, as far as you know, is the story Uncle George told us a complete fabrication?"_

" _As far as I know, yes. I haven't heard the story, but I'm assuming—from what_ _ **your father**_ _told_ _ **me**_ _—that it_ _is."_

" _Then, does Jimmy Kelsey really exist?"_

 _"That's a difficult question to answer," Darla replied, looking slightly dyspeptic._

 _If that was a difficult question to answer, then that must mean . . . A figurative light bulb suddenly went on over my head. "Am I right in assuming, then, that Jimmy Kelsey isn't really a reporter at the paper?"_

" _Yes, you are."_

 _I wanted to ask, "So, who is he?" but that question wouldn't've been allowed. "How many questions have we covered so far?"_

" _I count five."_

 _Whew! I'd better choose my next few questions carefully, or I wouldn't learn anything of value. I chewed my lower lip, trying to decide what to ask next. After a while, I came up with something. "If Dad hasn't really been abducted, does that mean he's hiding out somewhere for reasons of his own?"_

" _Yes."_

 _Wow! That was a mind-bender. Why in the world would Dad want to hide out, and then get Uncle George to send Mac and me on a mission to supposedly "rescue" him?_

 _Suddenly, another light bulb went on._

" _This has something to do with Mac and me, doesn't it?"_

 _Darla nodded, smiling stiffly. "Yes," she said, "it does."_

 _I smiled slightly and shook my head. "That old schemer! He designed this entire elaborate plot just to get Mac and me together!" Darla started to open her mouth to speak, but I put a hand up to stop her. "Don't say anything, D.J." (Her middle name was "Jane"; I'd often called her "D.J.") I smiled a little more. "I don't want you to get into trouble with Dad."_

" _Jack, since you've already figured it out—"_

" _Only what his_ _ **plan**_ _was. I'm going to have to get together with my brother (after he's finished getting the clues from Uncle George) and decide what we're going to do about it."_

" _I know this whole situation is very upsetting," said Darla, "and when Mac finds out, he may feel that getting the clues from your uncle was a complete waste of time. But, you both need to keep in mind that the clues to your_ _ **father's whereabouts**_ _are very probably hidden somewhere among those that are_ **supposed** _to lead you to the so-called 'evidence'."_

" _I'm sure they are," I replied, feeling a tad annoyed and petulant about the whole thing. "That's not the issue. The issue is whether we should dance to Dad's piper, or let him stew for a while in his own juices. It'd serve him right, the interfering old coot."_

" _He just cares about his sons, Jack, and wants you to learn to get along."_

" _I kinda figured that one out by myself; but thanks for confirming it."_

" _What do you have against your brother, anyway? —aside from the fact that he's fifteen years younger than you are."_

" _Nothing, really," I admitted. "But that fifteen years' age difference kinda kept us from getting to know each other well,_ _capiche_ _? We don't have a lot in common—except, apparently, a fondness for Jeeps."_

" _A fondness for Jeeps; I guess that's a start, anyway. . . Look, Jack, you're both middle-aged men now. The fifteen years age difference shouldn't be as big a deal as it was when_ _**you**_ _were eighteen and_ _ **he**_ _was three. . . Spend some time with Mac and find out what he's been doing for the past several years. It can't have been easy for him, growing up in your shadow. A navy pilot who's also a decorated war hero—and now an admiral—is pretty tough to compete with. I feel for him—I really do. He's spent his entire adult life trying to establish an identity and a life of his own that could be important and meaningful in your_ _ **father's**_ _eyes."_

" _I'm sure you're right about that; but it really wasn't my doing. I just lived my life as I saw fit, and Dad happened to be proud of me. . . Is it_ _ **my**_ _fault Mac felt he could never measure up, or that Dad, maybe, didn't think he could, either?"_

" _No, of course not; and I'm sure your father has regrets. That's probably one of the reasons he's doing this."_

 _I sighed. "Okay. You've made a decent case for Mac and me working together to uncover the clues to our father's whereabouts. . . But I still think we oughta let him sweat a little . . . ."_

 _Darla shrugged. "I don't have a problem with that. Just keep in mind that he may not have a lot of supplies stored up. He may not be expecting the search to last overly long—"_

" _Wherever he is—whether his fridge and his larder are well-stocked or not—I'm sure he has access to whatever provisions he needs. He's probably staying at a cabin in the mountains somewhere, with a supply outlet or outpost of some kind nearby. Dad has lots of friends who're hunters, campers and fishermen, and some of them have cabins. In fact, we have one of our own, although I doubt very much he'd use_ _ **it**_ _: too obvious; too convenient."_

" _I've no doubt you and Mac will find him easily, once you decipher the clues."_

" _Oh, yeah, I'm sure we will; the question is whether we_ _ **should**_ _." I sighed. "We shouldn't leave him hanging_ _ **too**_ _long, though. After all, he's only trying to help . . . ." I rolled my eyes._

 _Darla laughed softly. "Don't be too hard on him when you_ _ **do**_ _find him, Jack. All he really wants is a little unity in his family, and . . . maybe a few grandchildren . . .."_

" _Grandchildren? He wants me to give him grandchildren, at my age? There're only two ways that could happen: one would be for me to marry a younger woman who's still of childbearing age—and being the irascible old coot I am, I'm not likely to do_ **that** _to_ _ **any**_ _sweet, young thing; the other would be for me to marry a woman who already has children and—"_

" _Why do you think he sent you to me?" Darla asked, a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile on her pretty face._

" _Oh, you have_ _ **got**_ _to be kidding! That is rich!" Another light bulb went on. I was feeling downright luminescent by this time. "That's why Uncle George mentioned that you were a widow and near my age: He was hoping the two of us would . . . Does he know about our past?"_

 _Darla nodded. "Oh, yes, he knows—thanks to your dad. I suspect the two of them were hoping that—in spite of the unusual nature of our past relationship (or maybe because of it)—we might hit it off somewhere along the way while I'm assisting you in deciphering and interpreting the clues your uncle George is now giving to Mac."_

 _I was dumbfounded. I couldn't believe that Dad and Uncle George had concocted such an elaborate scheme which—if it worked—would not only bring my brother and me together, but would also put me in contact with a suitable eligible woman. I then remembered hearing the last words Mac spoke as I was leaving the house: "Do you have a girl for me, too, Uncle George?" So, what if he did? Was getting us both married part of the plan, too? If so, Mac was undoubtedly due to be victimized sometime in the near future. . . Oh, man, were these guys good! I had to hand it to them. If Darla's conscience—in the form of her inability to lie to me—hadn't gotten the better of her, we might've fallen for the entire fabrication, hook, line and sinker!_

 _Darla seemed to be reading my mind. She said, "The idea that he set us up disturbs you, doesn't it, Jack?"_

" _Only in principle, Darla; only in principle," I assured her. "He's_ _ **interfering**_ _in my life—telling himself he's doing it for_ _ **my own good**_ _, of course._ **That** _I resent; but this particular_ _ **result**_ _of his interference—?" I shook my head. "No, that doesn't disturb me. I'm actually_ _ **glad**_ _he brought us together."_

" _So am I," Darla said, smiling softly. That made_ _ **me**_ _smile, too. I liked Darla. A lot. It was kind of scary, in a way. But, for some reason, I wasn't as scared as I probably had a_ _ **right**_ _to be. I'd been on my own for a long time. Darla was a warm, attractive, intelligent, understanding woman. Plus, we had a history. What more could I ask for?_

" _So, when this is all over—after we find Dad—would you like to maybe, go out?"_


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

"So, what'd she say?" I asked Jack. He had just finished telling me about his lunch date with Darla. I was seated on the sofa and a hard copy of Uncle George's dictation sat on the coffee table in front of me, right next to Jack's hat. He was in the armchair he'd occupied before.

"She asked why we should wait until we found Dad to go out— _that_ caught me off guard. I wasn't expecting her to be that anxious to jump into something so soon. . .."

"So soon after losing her husband? –or so soon after being . . . _**reunited**_ with you?"

Jack gave a half-shrug and looked slightly bemused. "Both, I guess. . . I mean, I know it's been over a year since her husband died; and I know she had a crush on me when we were kids. But it's still kind of scary how quickly she accepted. I thought she'd waffle a little, you know?"

With a crooked smile, I said, "It seems to me, Jack, that she still has feelings for you—even after thirty years of marriage to another man. . . I don't remember much of what happened between the two of you when you were young; heck, I wasn't even around for most of it. But I do remember the hurt look in her eyes the day you and Liz got married. She was eighteen then, Jack. She was old enough to marry you herself—and I'll bet you a bundle she wanted to."

Jack shrugged and nodded, mulling the idea over. "It's possible; but I guess I was too far gone over Liz to notice."

"Undoubtedly. And who could blame you? She was a real looker."

"How would you know? You were only seven!"

"Oh, and you never had a crush on Marilyn Monroe when you were a kid?"

Jack reddened. "Yeah, well . . . every red-blooded American male did back then."

"And for me it was Raquel Welch. Same diff."

Jack smiled crookedly. "Not quite. At least Marilyn's assets were _genuine_."

I shrugged. "There is that. But who cared _how_ Raquel got stacked? She was, and that was all that mattered."

"If you say so . . .."

"So, what did you say to Darla, then?"

"I told her 'okay'. In fact, we have a dinner date with her and her niece at seven."

"Darla has a niece? What's she like? Have you met her?"

"No, I haven't met her. As for what she's like . . . I don't know all that much about her. She's the daughter of Darla's sister, Joan, whom you may or may not remember."

I nodded. "Joan was the middle child, right?"

"Right. She's halfway between Darla and their brother Terrence in age. (Terry is about a year older than I am; _you_ do the math.) Joan was a beautiful girl and really bright. Jamie, apparently, takes after her. Darla says she has blond hair and big, china-blue eyes, just like Joan." He snapped his fingers. "Oh, and she's some kind of scientific genius. She works at that new think tank on the east side of town, trying to find a way to save a good chunk of the population in the event of nuclear war."

"Did you say her name is 'Jamie'?"

Jack nodded. "Did I forget to mention that 'James/Jimmy Kelsey' is really _Jamie_ Kelsey, Darla's niece?"

"Yeah, you did."

"Sorry; there was a lot to remember. The fact that she didn't work for the paper and had nothing to do with the so-called evidence was all that really mattered to me when Darla first told me about her. . . Anyhoo, Dad asked for a name, so Darla gave him one. He apparently changed it from 'Jamie' to 'James' because he wanted something that sounded more—"

"Masculine?"

"I was going to say 'adult,' but 'masculine' works, too."

"So, we've got a dinner date with Darla and Jamie, huh? Where are we going to eat? If we have to dress up, I'm in trouble. I didn't bring a suit."

"I didn't think you even _owned_ one."

I shrugged. "I bought one when I started attending weddings on a semi-regular basis. (You make a lot of friends when you hang out with environmentalists.) Anyway, it was a hassle having to borrow or rent a suit whenever a friend or colleague decided to tie the knot, never mind having to rent a tux every time I was asked to be the Best Man. Having my own suit saved a lot of wear and tear on my pocketbook."

"That's where being in the military is a _good_ thing," said Jack. "Dress uniforms can be worn for any and all special occasions or events."

"Yeah, I remember how cool you looked on your wedding day. With all that brass, you were shinier than Liz."

"She wasn't too happy about that, either."

"No bride wants her husband to outshine her. Remember that when you marry Darla."

"Who said anything about marrying Darla?"

I shrugged. "From where _I'm_ sitting, it seems inevitable: You already know each other—more or less; you seem to like each other; you're both available . . ." I shrugged again. "Sounds perfect to me."

"Yeah, well, don't say anything to Darla. If it's gonna happen, let's just let nature take its course, okay?"

"No problem. I shall metaphorically zip my lip where any talk of you and Darla getting married is concerned. References to her childhood crush on you, however, is another matter entirely." I smiled mischievously at my older brother.

"Just be circumspect about it, all right? I don't want her to be unduly embarrassed or hurt."

"I shall endeavor to be discreet and limit my questions and comments to _humorous_ situations and avoid _embarrassing_ ones."

"I would sincerely appreciate that, and I'm sure Darla would, too. . . Now, let's rummage through my luggage and see if we can find something suitable for you to wear tonight." As Jack fetched his suitcase (which was one of those humongous black ones made of sturdy, waterproof nylon with a retractable handle and wheels) from where he'd left it by the front door and brought it into the living room, he said, "Darla is determined to go to a _nice_ restaurant; that doesn't mean _fancy._ " He dropped the heavy travel case unceremoniously onto the sofa and continued, "She's very picky where food is concerned."

"Could you clarify 'picky'?" I queried, as Jack unzipped the huge piece of luggage.

"She's a meat-and-potatoes kind of girl," my brother explained, as he rummaged through his civvies. "I guess she gets that from her dad. He was raised on a farm, where they always had hearty, filling meals. That's what he was used to, so that's what Mrs. McIntyre usually cooked." Having found what he was looking for, Jack removed the items from the suitcase and continued, "Not that _Darla_ eats large portions. She doesn't. In fact, she's a pretty _light_ eater—always has been."

"You learned all this over lunch?" I asked dubiously.

"Not all of it, no. Some of it I remember from when we were kids."

"For a guy who wasn't in love with the girl next door, you sure took a lot in."

Jack reddened. "I may not've been _in love_ with her, but that doesn't mean I didn't _notice_ her. Fact is, I did _care_ about her. When she was little, she was chubby and cherubic—an absolute doll. By the time she started grade school, that changed. She was skinny as a rail. Her arms and legs were toothpicks. She was awkward, ungainly . . . horrible at sports. She couldn't catch or hit a softball—or even kick a soccer ball—to save her life . . . although she was pretty good at hopscotch, dodge ball, foursquare and tether ball. Despite her deficiencies in P.E., she was a good student academically, and most of her teachers loved her. She nearly always made the honor roll."

"Being 'teacher's pet' is a death sentence to popularity," I put in.

Jack nodded. "To top it all off, she was one of the first kids in the neighborhood to get glasses. But, when she got to junior high, she began to blossom. Without traditional sports in P.E. to worry about anymore, she began to enjoy it: archery, gymnastics, modern dance—even running track. . . She _thrived_ on that stuff. I started seeing some real changes in her. The woman she is now had her beginnings back then, I think—even to the way she wears her hair."

"You mean, she still wears it long and straight?" I asked, remembering how she'd looked when she was my babysitter.

"Yes, she does. The moment I saw her I knew who she was, despite the fact that Uncle George neglected to mention her maiden name. I'd gone in there expecting to meet some strange woman named Darla Finley; but instead I found Darla McIntyre, all grown up—and middle-aged, like me. She smiled at me and called me by name and I knew her right away. . ..

"It was weird to find her ensconced in Dad's office. I was, to say the least, disoriented; but Darla is still Darla. She made me feel welcome, acted like she was glad to see me. The years just _melted_ away, but at the same time, they didn't. I saw the _young_ Darla inside this mature, self-assured, erudite woman in front of me, and . . . suddenly I realized what I'd missed out on by rushing into marrying Liz. If I had paid more attention to the young woman Darla was becoming, instead of continuing to think of her as just 'the little girl next door . . .'" he paused, shrugging, "—my _whole life_ might've turned out differently."

"You wouldn't've lost a son and a wife to tragic circumstances."

"That's for _dang_ sure. Darla can't swim and won't go near the ocean . . . the beach, yeah; but not the water. She'd never allow a child to go in swimming without competent supervision."

"Another piece of information gleaned through deductive reasoning?"

"Not entirely. I asked her if she'd ever taken her kids to the beach up in Washington. I was casual about the way I broached the subject, _and_ in the way I worded the query. She had no reason to think I might be making a comparison between her and Liz, especially since I _wasn't_ —not _consciously_ , anyway. After her remarks about the ocean, the beach and swimming, I made the contrast _mentally_ , but that wasn't my intention when I asked the question. I was just curious, since she lived so near Seattle."

Having finished his narrative, Jack held out a pair of chocolate brown Dockers and one of those trite tweed sport coats with brown elbow patches.

"You expect me to wear _this_?" I protested, pointing derisively at the jacket.

Jack shrugged. "Unless you'd rather go shopping . . . ."

"I _hate_ shopping!"

"I know," he said, with a smile that was partly impish and partly smug. "It's either this or . . . shirt sleeves. I understand the place we're going to doesn't require a jacket or a suit coat, if the shirt you're wearing is fancy enough."

"You mean, like those ones with the billowed sleeves we used to wear back in the '80s?"

"Something along those lines, I imagine."

"That was twenty years ago! They don't even make those things anymore."

Jack shrugged. "You could always check and see if one of _Dad's_ suit coats will fit you."

Suddenly a question occurred to me. "Jack," I asked, "why did you bring that thing with you in the first place? You obviously had no intention of wearing it yourself . . . ."

"Actually," my brother said, looking at me archly, "I _did_ intend to. I don't usually wear my uniform except when I'm on official business."

"But since Darla likes it so much . . ."

"Exactly. . . As to why I'd wear that ugly piece of crap . . . people don't take you seriously when you're wearing an elbow-patched tweed jacket. It's so cliché that no one even asks you _the time of day_. With all the attention I get when I wear my uniform, it's kind of nice to be anonymous once in a while."

"So then, basically, the tweed jacket is like camouflage or something."

"I guess you could say that. When I wear that tweed jacket, I'm just your average Joe. At times the uniform has its perks; but _other_ times anonymity is better."

I sighed, taking the jacket and slacks from my brother. "Well, since that's all you've got, I guess I'm stuck with it. . . Couldn't you have been anonymous with just a little bit more . . . flair?"

"That would be an oxymoron. If you have flair, you can't be anonymous."

"Jack, I never realized how downright devious you are."

"It's the military training. No matter which branch of the service you may be in, one of the main things you have to learn is how to be sneaky. It's a matter of survival."

"I imagine it is." I went to the coat closet, found an empty dual-purpose hanger, hung the slacks and the jacket on it, and took it upstairs to my bedroom.

When I returned to the living room, the suitcase was out of sight, something that was apparently Jack's spare uniform (protected by a rip-stop nylon suit bag) was hanging from one of Mom's old plant hooks, and Jack was seated once again in the armchair, flipping through a copy of _Outdoor Life_ magazine. Without looking up, he asked, "So, Little Brother, how long have you been working for the NSA?"


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

 _The look on Mac's face was priceless! "How did you . . . ?" he stammered._

 _I shrugged. "I work for Homeland Security, remember?"_

 _Mac nodded slowly as understanding dawned, and he sank slowly onto the sofa, saying, "So you can pretty much find out_ _ **anything**_ _about_ _ **anybody**_ _. . ."_

" _Pretty much, yeah."_

" _But why? Why did you want to check up on_ _ **me**_ _?"_

 _He sounded a bit peeved. I couldn't blame him. If the shoe were on the other foot, I'd be kind of upset, too. Nonetheless, I cringed. "'Check up on' has such an invasive sound to it."_

" _Isn't that what you do, though: check up on people?—pry into their private lives to make sure they're not . . . terrorists or traitors, or whatever?"_

" _For the most part, yeah," I confirmed, nodding again. "But in_ _ **your**_ _case I was just curious. I wondered what you'd been up to since we last saw each other. . . I mean, if we were going to be working together to find Dad, I wanted to know more about the man alongside whom I might possibly be risking life and limb. Dad told me you were into 'causes,' and you said something a few minutes ago about 'hanging out with environmentalists' . . ." I shook my head, shrugged, then continued, "I always knew you were environmentally conscious and that you believed in saving the world one rainforest or endangered species at a time; but you're_ _ **not**_ _independently wealthy, and a person can't exactly make a living out of espousing causes. So, I did some checking."_

" _And you found out that I've been lately working for the NSA," Mac inferred._

 _I nodded. "And before that, you were undercover with the LAPD bunko squad, attempting to discredit any and all of the organizations that were ostensibly raising funds to protect one ecological asset or another, but which were, in reality, nothing but a bunch of con artists who took the money and ran."_

 _Mac nodded. "Yeah. It's_ _ **disgusting**_ _to see how many people there are who're willing to make a buck off someone else's generosity and good will; and it's_ _ **disturbing**_ _to see how many others will donate to an organization without checking its credentials first. . .._

" _I was sent, undercover, to check out any outfit that we got complaints about from people who suspected they'd been bamboozled. Some of them were already long gone, but I was able to track down a few of the front people and bring them in. Some of them had started new groups with a different 'cause' in a new location. There were a few that the IRS put us onto: organizations people claimed on their tax returns that they'd made donations to, but that hadn't filed for exemption status. Others had been smart enough to file for exemption, but the amount of money they claimed to have received didn't jibe with what the_ _ **donors**_ _claimed on their returns—not even_ _ **close**_ _. I mean, there're bound to be discrepancies—due to faulty bookkeeping, or maybe a handful of people who don't claim those particular donations on their tax returns. But the differences in_ _ **these**_ _cases were usually in the_ _ **thousands**_ _."_

" _So, you worked undercover to separate the chaff from the wheat, as it were?"_

" _Something like that, yeah. We closed down the rip-off artists and made sure the legitimate ones filed for exemption status, so they wouldn't be unnecessarily hounded by the IRS._

" _It usually took a while to get enough evidence to take a group down. There were a lot of good, honest people in those groups who'd given of their time and energy—as well as money—to what they believed was a good cause. When they found out it was all a rip-off, they were shocked. A lot of 'em swore off 'causes' forever. I did my best to dissuade them from that, telling them that there are a lot of worthy, legitimate organizations that could really use their help, but that they needed to be more careful and check with the IRS to find out which ones are and which ones aren't legitimate. Some just picked up the pieces and moved on to another organization in the same field as their previous one. This time, though, they were careful to check credentials."_

" _Okay, so that's what you've done in the_ _ **past**_ _. Worthy enough work. But, how did you end up with the NSA?"_

" _When the terrorist scare hit after 9/11 and the intelligence community was trying to find out how their operations were funded, they suspected some of it might be coming through phony charitable organizations—or even through semi-legitimate ones that practice double bookkeeping or that launder money. They're harder to pin down than the ones I was uncovering as a cop. But, I had a good success rate and was well known by the various groups and their supporters. . . Moving from cause to cause and organization to organization the way I did, I was considered something of a flake by most people who join just one cause and one organization. A lot of them figured I was either really dedicated to saving everything I possibly could, or else I hadn't found the right cause yet—one that would really hold my interest. But no one ever turned me away; in fact, most of them were determined to make me see that_ _ **their**_ _cause was the most important one of all—the one I should stick with and make my life's calling. So, it wasn't hard for me to infiltrate any of them. That's what the NSA was counting on." He paused and said, "I need a drink. I haven't talked this much at one time since I was the keynote speaker at the national gathering of the Save the Rain Forests Foundation in Topeka." He got up and headed for the kitchen. "Would you like a cold one?"_

 _I shook my head. "Nah, I wanna be sober when I go to dinner with Darla, and I usually can't stop with just one. When did_ _ **you**_ _start drinking beer? As I recall, you were pretty heavy into protein shakes, bean sprout salads, and all that . . . 'new age' vegetarian health food stuff."_

" _It's hot in California," Mac said with a shrug, as if that explained everything._

 _I smiled. "Peer pressure. It'll do it every time."_

" _Peer pressure had nothing to do with it," my brother protested. "But, after a hot day of protesting or holding a rally, you get thirsty, and—"_

" _And everybody goes out for a beer afterward. You just went along for the ride." I gave him the thumbs up, smiled and winked at him. "Gotcha," I added._

 _Mac rolled his eyes. "Okay, so my lifestyle has changed a bit. I never said I was a saint. . . So, what do you want to drink?"_

" _Just bring me a glass of cold water from the fridge tap . . . if it's not too much trouble."_

" _I think I can manage that."_

 _Mac returned a couple of minutes later with a bottle of beer in one hand and a frosty glass of ice water in the other. "Thanks," I said, taking the water. "So the NSA recruited you on the strength of your success rate on the bunco squad, huh?"_

" _Yes, but the work_ _ **they**_ _have me doing is a lot tougher_ _ **and**_ _more dangerous. I've already uncovered two Al Qaeda-run setups. They were both legitimate organizations whose original founders or most well-known leaders died just a few months before 9/11; and no one—not even those who'd been with the organizations for years—had any idea who had replaced them. Any and all members of the groups who had had personal contact with the upper echelons were no longer allowed access. New people that no one had ever seen or heard of before came in to run things at their public headquarters, and they were the only ones with access to the new management. Suddenly, the main bodies of the organizations found themselves cut off from their leadership, and that got a few people worried. Internet chat rooms were filled with speculation, distrust and fear. That's why the NSA got involved and sent me in to investigate."_

" _Were the new front people of Middle Eastern origin or anything like that?"_

 _Mac shook his head. "Not a one. That's what made it so difficult to pin them down at first. I found out later that some were disaffected Americans with an ax to grind, who willingly helped the terrorists raise money; others were in it only for what they had been promised they'd get if they cooperated, and they were loyal to no one but themselves."_

" _So, how'd you get the evidence you needed?" I asked, taking a sip of water._

" _Months and months of hard work—and a lot of Oscar-caliber acting." He made a face as though the very_ _ **thought**_ _of what he'd had to do was distasteful._

" _What'd you do?" I asked, taking another drink._

 _Mac took a pull on his beer and said, "I took my cue from the disaffected lot: I pretended I was blaming the WASP-infested government for all our environmental problems—that they were either causing them, or allowing them to occur through kickbacks, payoffs, or just plain negligence. I would say—in the presence of those I thought most likely to have contact with the hidden money men—that I didn't half blame the terrorists for trying to take us down—that, as a country, we'd gotten too big for our britches."_

" _And that, eventually, got you into the inner circle, so to speak."_

" _Yeah, it did. At least, it got me an intro. Both times I had to play it close to the chest for several weeks before I was actually introduced to the 'Fat Cat'. The thing that surprised me most was that I was able to pull off the_ _ **second**_ _one once I'd accomplished the_ _ **first**_ _one. I was expecting to find out that I was Public Enemy #1 in their playbooks. Turns out they had no idea who I was or what I'd done. Each of the organizations is autonomous—answerable only to one person, who, in turn, is answerable to another . . . etc. It's a long chain of command, intended to protect those directly involved with Al Qaeda itself. But, in spite of that, I was able to get what I needed, and two complete chains were destroyed, clear back to their sources._

" _Since that time, some of the longest-standing_ _ **legitimate**_ _members of those particular organizations have been voted in as new leaders. I understand they're doing quite well now and are determined not to let the same thing happen again. They've each been assigned permanent bodyguards."_

 _I nodded. "Good job, Little Brother; Dad would be proud." Then I looked at Mac with a furrowed brow and asked, "Why didn't you ever tell him?"_

" _My work is undercover, Jack. Need to know. Classified. . . Savvy?"_

" _Of course I savvy! It's my job, too! But for crying out loud, Mac!—who's_ _ **Dad**_ _gonna tell?"_

" _He does run a newspaper . . ."_

" _He_ _ **owns**_ _it now, Mac; he doesn't_ _ **run**_ _it anymore—_ _ **Darla**_ _does. Anyway, you're his son. Do you think he'd risk your neck for the sake of a_ _ **headline**_ _?"_

" _No, but—"_

" _All your life you've been trying to get out from behind my shadow—to do something the old man could be proud of. Now that you're doing it, you refuse to tell him about it . . . which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever!"_

 _Mac sighed. "All right, Jack. If and when we find Dad, I'll tell him what I do for a living. But, I'm gonna check for electronic surveillance equipment before I do it." All of a sudden, he got a sick look on his face. "I just told_ _ **you**_ _everything, and I didn't scan_ _ **this**_ place _for bugs!"_

 _I smiled. "Already done." I showed him my scanner. "I took care of it while you were putting the slacks and jacket away. I figured, with you working for the NSA and me working for Homeland Security, it was better to be safe than sorry. At the moment, we're safe."_

" _I just hope nobody's outside with one of those amplifier mikes aimed at the house."_

 _I shook my head. "Nope. Already called the office and had a satellite scan done."_

 _Mac's jaw dropped slightly. "Man, you're thorough!"_

" _Gotta be. It's my job. Anyway, it's getting late. We oughta be getting ready for our date. By the way, where'd you hang those clothes I loaned you?"_

" _My closet."_

" _ **Your**_ _closet? That was_ _ **my**_ _room long before it was_ _ **yours**_ _."_

" _Yeah, and then you got married and moved out. Mom and Dad gave me your room, and my room was made into a sewing room for Mom. You know that."_

" _But what is it now? Mom's been dead for fifteen years!"_

 _Mac shrugged. "The sewing machine is still in there, and it looks as though Dad's been using it. Maybe he hems up his own trousers when they start to come undone."_

" _No bed of any kind in there? No futon or sofa-sleeper?"_

" _Nada."_

" _Then I guess I'm stuck with the sofa."_

" _Or you could use_ _ **Dad's**_ _room. It's your call. But the other bedroom is mine now."_

" _Hold it a minute. Is this a fold-out couch?"_

 _Mac set his empty beer bottle on a coaster on the coffee table and dropped onto the sofa. "Definitely. It doesn't bounce the way a normal sofa does."_

" _Guess I've found my bed for the night, then. . . So," I suggested as I took my water glass out to the kitchen, "you go use the shower in the_ _ **hall**_ _bathroom and I'll use Dad's."_

" _Fair enough," Mac called after me. Then, as I returned to the living room . . . "Say, Jack, do you think I oughta wear a tie?"_


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

In answer to the question of whether or not I should wear a tie, Jack shrugged and said, "If you can find one you like that doesn't clash with the jacket, why not?" He then took his uniform down from the hook on which it had been hanging and followed me up the stairs.

"I think Dad had a plain brown one once upon a time," I said in reference to a tie. "Mind if I look for it?"

Jack shrugged again as we entered the master bedroom. "Help yourself," he said, as he laid the suit bag out on the bed and unzipped it, removing a set of clean underwear from what would've been the bottom of the bag if it had still been hanging up. Surprisingly enough, the shirt and the shorts were both white. "Just remember to put it back before you leave town."

"Hey, I'm not a kleptomaniac. I always return what I borrow," I said defensively, as I searched through Dad's closet.

"True," Jack admitted, as he removed his spare uniform, its accompanying shirt, and their respective hangers from the bag. "Sometimes it takes a few years, but you do eventually return things."

"When did I ever borrow anything from you and not return it right away?" I asked, finding a tie I thought might work and removing it from its hanger.

"My Boy Scout manual. You borrowed it when you became a Scout and didn't return it until you graduated from college." Jack laid each of his clothing items in a pile, with his jacket on the bottom and his underwear on top. The only thing missing was a pair of socks. He went to the dresser and searched for a pair of Dad's.

"So? You didn't need it anymore," I said in response to Jack's comment about the Scout manual. "What do you think? Is this tie the right shade of brown?" I held it up against the pants Jack had loaned me.

He tilted his head and looked at the tie and slacks thoughtfully. "It looks okay to me. . . Anyway, whether I needed the Scout manual again or not isn't the point."

"No, it isn't. The point is that you're always criticizing me for something."

"'Always' is a relative term—especially since we see so little of each other."

"But every time we do, you're on my case about something."

"Maybe because you're so thickheaded. It takes forever to get anything into your skull."

"You are the most insufferably conceited older brother any man could have the misfortune of laying claim to!" I ranted, shaking a finger at Jack.

He smiled impishly. "Gotcha!" Then he began to whistle while getting undressed. He took a suit hanger from Dad's closet and started hanging his used uniform jacket and tie on it.

Despite being distracted by my brother's actions, I was fuming; but I eventually found my voice again. "You deliberately baited me!"

"Yep; and you fell for it, too."

"Not anymore, bro; not anymore." I shook my head. "I don't know what in Hades Darla sees in you . . . ."

Jack turned serious then. "Maybe tonight you'll find out, Little Brother. You wondered earlier about our history—mine and Darla's. I'm going to bring it up tonight over dinner. I think we _**both**_ need to be reminded of how that crush she had on me actually started. Sometimes the past can be a springboard to the future. I hope, in this case, that it will be."

"There's a part of me that, strictly out of habit, wants to say something snide in response to that statement. But your feelings for Darla are so sincere . . . saying something snide would be disrespectful to _**her**_ ; and I have nothing but the highest regard for that little lady—except when it comes to her feelings for you."

Jack looked at me, mildly amused. "Well, I'm glad we both agree that Darla deserves our respect and esteem, no matter what our issues with _**each other**_ might be. But, FYI, I intend to be a regular Prince Charming around Darla tonight and try to win back whatever points I might've lost when I married Liz. . . You said it yourself, Mac: Darla obviously still has feelings for me; and I think it's time I reciprocated. So, until further notice, I'm calling a truce between you and me. All I wanna think about for the next—" he looked at his wristwatch "—six to eight hours is pleasing Darla." He unfastened his belt and tossed it to the bed. "I just hope you and Jamie hit it off: An uncomfortable silence between the two of you could really put a damper on the evening."

"I'll do my best to be sociable," I said in a somewhat gruff manner.

"Just let _her_ do most of the talking," Jack advised me. "Darla says Jamie's very passionate about everything she's involved in. Just broach a subject and let her go. If she asks for your opinion, give it to her, but keep it short."

"And what makes _you_ such an expert?" I asked.

Jack shook his head. "Nothing. I'm just telling you what Darla suggested. She's known Jamie her entire life. If the two of you hit it off right away and you think you might like to try to develop a relationship of some kind with her, it behooves you to follow the counsel of someone who knows what she's talking about."

I nodded. "Yeah, it does. I just thought—"

"You thought I was talking through my hat, I know." Jack sighed. "Bro, I wouldn't presume to advise you on what to do on a date—especially with someone _I_ haven't even met yet."

"I appreciate that."

"No problem," Jack answered. He then turned to face me, which was a bit discomfiting, as he was, by this time, stark naked. "Although this is going to be a double date, I suggest we try to keep our conversations separate as much as possible. You and Jamie need time to get to know each other, and Darla and I need time to . . . reminisce. You're welcome to eavesdrop occasionally if you hear something interesting; but keep the comments to a minimum, please."

"I have no desire to intrude on anything . . . personal," I assured my brother. "But if, as you say, something interesting (that's not necessarily private or intimate) comes up, I may put in a word or two. Who knows? Even _Jamie_ might like to ask a question now and then."

"She just might at that," Jack replied. "See you downstairs in a while." Then he entered the bathroom and closed the door.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

 _We left the house at about twenty minutes before seven. I wasn't sure how long it'd take to get to Darla's place. She lived in a new condo development called Mile-High Village. She'd told me that it was on the northwest side of greater Denver; and she'd given me general directions that would at least put me in the right neck of the woods. But, beyond that, I had absolutely_ _ **no idea**_ _how to get there. I was on my cellphone with her the entire time I was driving, listening as she gave me more detailed directions. Since she and I had grown up next door to each other, she knew where I was coming from, so I figured she could direct me pretty well—and she did . . . except when it came to the freeway._

 _Darla and I had both been away from Denver for so long, we were unaware of some of the new branches that had been added to the city's freeway system—especially those around our old neighborhood. Darla knew the on- and off-ramps around the newspaper offices and her own condo village pretty well. But the newer ones in_ _ **our**_ _neck of the woods baffled her. I read off each of the exit signs before we got to them, so she could tell me if the area—or the street—in question was anywhere near her place. When I mentioned Iroquois Avenue, she cried, "That's it! That's the one! Take that exit . . . then turn left at the light, or the stop sign, or whatever."_

 _So I did. I turned left at the light. Iroquois Avenue was a busy street . . . and it led . . . straight to . . . Mile-High Village! Big surprise!_

" _Woot!" I said in celebratory fashion, as I spotted a huge billboard on the right that advertised "Mile-High Village Condominiums—the new name in quality and comfort—just 2 miles straight ahead." Of course, there was a picture of what the condos looked like. They were pretty nice, from what I could tell. I hoped Darla's was as roomy and comfortable as she needed it to be. . .._

 _One of the things I remembered about Darla was that she always valued her personal space. Being the youngest, she didn't have a room of her own till both of her siblings had left the nest. Even when she'd gone to college she'd had a roommate. This was probably the first time in her life that she was actually living alone. I was, of course, concerned for her safety. I hoped the condo—or at least the village itself—had sufficient security measures._

 _I pulled into what could appropriately be called "the neighborhood" that was Mile-High Village, and Darla told me how to find her street. She lived at 1357 John Elway Circle. The folks who built the place seemed to think it would be nice to give the condos regular addresses—like houses in the suburbs have—instead of just numbering them 1 thru 300, or however many units there were. And, of course, all of the so-called "streets" were named after great Broncos—even the coaches. The main street—the one that led right down the middle of the whole complex—was called "Dan Reeves Boulevard." It had a median, with small blue spruces every ten feet or so; and freshly-mowed, young green grass. Nice._

 _On the right, after we'd passed about a dozen little trees, I spotted a sign bearing John Elway's name and turned onto the appropriate street. I closed my cellphone and slid it back into my pocket, driving slowly around the cul-de-sac that was John Elway Circle. I had expected to see a cluster or chain of buildings: i.e., each condo having another attached to it on each side. But Mile-High Village wasn't like that. It was more like a series of what the British would call "semi-detached houses." Or what we would think of as extra-large duplexes._

 _I soon saw Darla and a younger woman with blond hair standing on a sidewalk, waving_ _ **.**_ _I pulled into the double driveway that Darla apparently shared with her left-hand neighbors in 1359. An address number was skipped between each building, so the next duplex had the numbers 1363 and 1365. Since it was a cul-de-sac, there was no "other side of the street," and, therefore, no_ _ **even**_ _numbers. Why the village's designers had chosen to use odd numbers instead of evens was anybody's guess, and why they had started numbering at 1351 was also something of a mystery. But I wasn't about to let such inconsequential things occupy my mind for more than a second._

 _I turned off the engine on the Cherokee, got out, shut the door, and walked up to Darla with my hands held out in front of me, a warm "I'm happy-to-see-you" smile on my face. Darla's hands reached for mine and took them. "You made it!"_

" _With you giving me directions, how could I not?" I queried politely. I drew her closer to me and kissed her on the cheek, whispering in her ear, "You look like a million dollars!"_

" _Thanks," she said in return, smiling softly._

 _Now, I'm not one to fuss overmuch about clothes, but I couldn't help noticing what the girls were wearing. Whether it was deliberate or not, they almost looked like matching bookends. Darla was wearing a pair of shiny black slacks—flawlessly neat, clean and pleated—with a silky white, short-sleeved blouse and a strand of pearls. From her right shoulder hung a small, simulated-pearl-covered shoulder bag on a long, golden chain. It just about reached her hip. On her feet she wore a pair of classy white dress sandals, evidently with nylons of some kind. I was glad to see her toenails weren't painted. Some peculiarities that women have I can handle; but painted toenails isn't one of them. Maybe I'm just priggish, or something._

 _Jamie was dressed similarly, but her slacks were dark brown and her blouse was kind of a beige-ecru sort of thing, like the one Darla had been wearing that morning in her office, except that Jamie's—like the one Darla was wearing now—was short-sleeved. Instead of a necklace of any kind, Jamie was wearing a lapel pin—not big enough to be called a brooch—in the shape of a French poodle. It was silver and was studded with small, round bits of turquoise. She carried a clutch purse, which, like her shoes (which had closed toes but only straps in the back) was bedecked with silvery specks. They both looked gorgeous. I could tell Mac thought so, too._

 _I took all of this in while Darla, still holding my hand, turned to look at Mac and Jamie and proceeded to introduce us all to one another._

 _Mac, however, had already introduced himself to Jamie, and she had returned the favor. My kid brother appeared to be completely taken with her. I doubted either of them had noticed the warm greetings Darla and I had just given each other. In any event, Darla introduced Jamie to me and vice versa. We shook hands in a perfunctory fashion, smiling politely._

" _Well then," I said once the intros were all out of the way, "shall we be off?" I held out my arm to Darla and walked her to the passenger side of the front seat of the Cherokee._

" _I take it this means that you and I get the back seat," said Jamie to Mac._

" _If you're uncomfortable with that idea," I said, "we can always change it and put Darla in back with you. But I was told this would be a double date . . . ."_

" _No, no, it's fine," Jamie said, nodding, although I sensed that it wasn't. I couldn't help wondering how long it'd been since Jamie had been alone with a man anywhere except in a laboratory. . . Anyway, Mac opened her door for her, putting her behind her aunt._

" _So," I said to Darla, once everyone was seated and strapped in, "how do we get to this restaurant you're so fond of?"_

" _It's about five and a half blocks north from the village entrance," she informed me, "on the right-hand side of the street."_

" _Good! I hate making left turns across traffic."_

" _So, do I," Darla admitted. Then she asked, "Did you and Mac find anything interesting in your uncle's dictation?"_

 _I shook my head. "We really haven't taken the time to look it over yet. We were . . . otherwise occupied this afternoon." I could feel myself redden a little._

 _Darla smiled. "You were talking about us, weren't you? I mean, about Jamie and me."_

" _Some," I admitted grudgingly._

" _It's okay, really. I don't mind."_

" _Neither do I," spoke up Jamie. "I figured, since we were all going out together tonight, Mac might have a few questions about me."_

" _You look a lot like your mom," Mac commented._

" _So I've been told," Jamie replied blandly. "I understand she was your babysitter before Aunt Darla was old enough to do it."_

" _I really don't remember. I was two when Darla took over. I just remember seeing Joan before and after school when I was a little older."_

" _Aunt Darla," Jamie queried, "why did Mom turn the job over to you, anyway?"_

" _Because she was asked to sit with the Ramsey twins across the street. They were girls,_ _ **and**_ _she made twice the money. Mrs. Ramsey paid sitters per_ _ **child**_ _as well as per hour."_

 _Mac whistled. "That's pretty generous."_

 _I looked over at Darla and nodded. "I remember you telling me about it at the time; and I believe I said something like, 'No wonder Joan palmed my brother off on you.'"_

"' _Palmed off?'" Mac protested. "Do you see what I have to put up with?" he asked Jamie, obviously after sympathy._

 _Jamie shrugged. "My brother and I are no different. Siblings fight. It's a fact of life."_

" _Yeah, well, with Jack and me, it's a bit more than that."_

 _Jamie nodded. "The age difference, I know."_

" _Actually," I spoke up, "it's a bit more than that—on my part, anyway."_

" _What?" Mac asked, leaning forward in his seat and looking at me intently._

 _I sighed. "I was fifteen when you were born. Dad and I were just starting to really bond, you know?—doing guy stuff together that he'd always thought I was too little to do before. Then you came along and all that changed. Under normal circumstances, I don't think he would've been as hands-on with you as he was. But, since it'd been so long since I was a baby, and since Mom's health was kind of precarious after you born, Dad took a more active roll in your care and nurturing than he did mine. All my life he'd treated me like a kid; then, when I got into high school, our relationship became more_ _ **adult**_ _. . . and a lot more man-to-man. After you were born, it was gone as quick as it started."_

" _Hey, I'm sorry," Mac apologized. "But it's not as if it was my fault."_

" _I know that," I griped. "In my_ _ **heart**_ _I knew it back then, too; but in my_ _**head**_ _. . . ." I shrugged. "What can I say? I resented you for taking Dad away from me. It wasn't reasonable. It just . . . was."_

" _But when Mom got stronger and I didn't need quite so much care, he turned his attention right back to you again, didn't he?" Mac said resentfully. "All I ever heard growing up was how proud he was of his son in the Navy."_

" _Do you know why I joined the Navy in the first place?" I asked. "It wasn't just because it was an old family tradition, although that was a part of it. But for me, primarily, it was to get back some of that attention I'd lost. I knew if I became a successful naval officer Dad would be pleased as punch and would start noticing me again."_

" _So, it wasn't just the fifteen years' age difference after all," said Darla. "There really was—and still is—a powerful sibling rivalry between you two."_

 _Jamie then put in another nickel's worth. "It doesn't matter what_ _ **caused**_ _the rift or the rivalry. You're full grown men now. It's time to grow up and stop digging at each other all the time. Find some common ground and work from there. Isn't that what this whole 'kidnapping' escapade of your dad's is all about?—getting the two of you together?"_

" _Supposedly," I replied. "I'm still not entirely sure about that."_

" _But—" Darla began._

 _I held up a hand, nodding. "I know, I know: it's what Dad_ _ **told**_ _you. But something in my gut tells me everything isn't quite what it seems—that there's more to this than meets the eye."_

" _Like what?" my brother asked._

 _I shook my head. "I'm not sure. It's just a feeling. I expect it'll become clearer as time goes on."_

" _You mean, once we decode the stuff your uncle dictated to Mac," Darla inferred._

" _Maybe . . ." I said noncommittally._

 _We had reached the restaurant. Further conversation was suspended till after I parked the Jeep. As I opened the door for Darla and she stepped out, she said, "Rule number one: no talking about your dad's disappearance over dinner; rule number two: no more squabbling between you two. This is a date; we're here to enjoy ourselves. Let's keep it light and friendly."_

" _And rule number three," I added as I closed the door, "no bringing up anything about the past that might be embarrassing or hurtful—to anyone."_

" _So, how do we know what might be embarrassing and what might not?" Mac inquired mischievously as Darla and I rounded the Jeep and met the other two on the sidewalk._

" _Just put yourself in the other person's shoes," I replied. "If it's something you wouldn't want discussed if it was_ _ **you**_ _instead of_ _ **them**_ _. . ._ _ **don't bring it up**_ _."_

 _Jamie nodded. "Good rule of thumb. Might take a lot of fun out of the evening, though."_

 _Darla looked at her niece slightly askance as I opened the door of the restaurant for her. "You were hoping to hear a few juicy tidbits, weren't you?" she asked as she stepped inside._

" _Well, maybe a few . . ." Jamie replied with a smile, following her aunt through the door._

" _After you," I said to my brother, continuing to hold the door as he approached._

" _I wouldn't think of it," Mac responded, taking hold of the door. "Age before beauty."_

 _Darla took my hand before I could make a retort. "Come on, Jack. Let's go on inside. I'm starving!"_

 _I wanted to say "Later, bro," to Mac, but I let it drop. Darla and Jamie had both made it clear that any more evidence of the sibling rivalry between Mac and me was a no-no for the evening; best to put the grudge aside for now. If Dad had his way—and Jamie, too, if her comments were any indication—it would be put aside_ _ **permanently**_ _._

 _Once we were all inside, a hostess led us to a table by a window with a view. Mac and I sat side by side, with the girls across the table from us. Darla and I were next to the window, with Mac and Jamie on the outside. It was a large table, so Mac and Jamie could move farther toward the edge of the table any time they—or we—wanted more privacy._

 _Being as it was summer, it was still light outside. Mile-High Village—and the restaurant—were in the suburbs. Downtown Denver was_ _ **miles**_ _away. The entire area was green with grass, shrubbery and trees. It was downright relaxing just to gaze out at it—which I did while everyone else was perusing their menus._

 _In due course, a "server" arrived. (I still prefer the old-fashioned, gender-specific terms: "waiter" and "waitress"; "steward" and "stewardess." At least princes and princesses are still specific. . ..)_

" _I'd like the California health food salad," I heard Jamie say. At least my little brother remembered his manners enough to let the ladies order first . . . ._

" _Darla?" Mac queried._

" _I'm going to have the petite sirloin on the seniors' menu: smaller portions for a smaller appetite." Despite the fact that I was still looking out the window, I couldn't help but smile._

" _Soup or salad?" the waitress asked._

" _Neither," she replied. I smiled again. That was my finicky little Darla._

" _I'll have the steak and shrimp platter," Mac said, jumping right in, "with a baked potato and lots of sour cream. And I'll take a tossed salad with blue cheese dressing."_

" _What about you, Jack?" Darla asked, pulling me out of my reverie._

" _Hm? Oh, the menu; right." I picked it up and scanned it semi-carefully. "The surf and turf sounds good to me, too . . . but I think I'll have French fries instead."_

" _Soup or salad?"_

" _Salad. I hate eating soup during the summer. Ranch dressing for me."_

 _The waitress . . . er, rather,_ _ **the server**_ _, then asked us what we wanted to drink. There were two orders for lemonade and two for Dr. Pepper. I'll give you two guesses who ordered which, and the first guess doesn't count. (Without consulting one another, we all seemed to have come to the conclusion that we were best off staying completely sober.)_

" _So, the seniors' menu, huh?" I teased Darla. She blushed. I smiled again. "You know, blushing gives you a certain . . . glow," I said._

 _Darla took a sip of water; then, after setting the glass down again, she self-consciously turned it around, as if she were playing with it. Then she shrugged and said (without looking at me), "I'm over fifty. I figure I'm entitled."_

" _ **I'm**_ _more over fifty than_ _ **you**_ _are," I pointed out._

" _Yes," she said, finally looking at me, "but you're a guy. Generally speaking, men eat more than women do."_

 _I nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Although, by the time I'm, say . . . eighty(?) . . . I won't have quite as much appetite as I do now. I've been to countless banquets with all kinds of retired officers—some of 'em looked like they already had one foot in the grave—and I swear . . . those old geezers ate less than a five-year-old."_

" _Most of them probably don't have all their own teeth anymore," Darla opined._

" _Or all of their own body parts," spoke up Mac. "When your body isn't working properly anymore, it's harder for it to digest food."_

" _Now there's a pleasant thought to start a meal with," I said sardonically._

" _So, let's change the subject, shall we?" Darla asked._

 _The salads were arriving—including Jamie's_ **BIG** _one. Time to eat._

" _So," I asked Darla, "what are you going to do while the rest of us eat our salads?"_

" _I'm going to sit here and look at all of your beautiful faces and tell amusing anecdotes."_

" _Look," I said as the waitress returned, "here's a basketful of soft rolls and butter. Why don't you save the anecdotes for later and eat?"_

" _Are you worried about me, Jack?" she asked impishly._

" _No! It's just that . . . I've never been comfortable eating in front of other people. It was a house rule, ya know? It's not polite to—"_

" _It's my choice, Jack."_

" _I know, but . . ."_

 _She smiled beguilingly. Man, she could drive me crazy!—in a_ _ **good**_ _way, of course. "All right. I'll have a roll."_

" _So," said Jamie as she picked up a forkful of greens, "how much about Aunt Darla do you really remember after all these years, Jack?"_

" _I'd like to know that, too," Darla said, looking at me pointedly. "What's my favorite food?"_

" _Spaghetti."_

" _That's incredible! When did I tell you that?"_

" _Never. Don't you remember the backyard barbeque at our house on the occasion of Mac's first birthday back in '66?"_

" _Yes, but—"_

" _Dad asked you whether you'd rather have a hamburger or a hot dog, and you said spaghetti was your favorite food and you didn't like barbeque sauce much anyway, so he said he'd cook you a burger or a hot dog without any sauce, and you agreed. As I recall, you took a hot dog and put mustard on it."_

" _Like I said before, bro," Mac whispered to me, "you paid awful close attention—"_

 _I shut him up with a slight kick under the table._

" _Would you two knock it off?" Jamie scolded. "You're breaking rule number two."_

" _Sorry," said Mac. "I can't seem to help myself."_

" _You're not gonna earn any brownie points that way, bro," I pointed out. Then I looked across the table at Darla. "Next question."_

" _Before you, who was my biggest hero?"_

" _In real life, your dad. In fiction, Sugarfoot. You thought Will Hutchins was the cutest guy on the planet." Jamie and Mac looked at me blankly. "Old western; before your time."_

" _What was my favorite song by the Monkees?"_

" _Hm . . . let me see . . . it was 'I'll be True to You' until 'I'm a Believer' came out . . . I think."_

" _You remember_ _ **that**_ _?"_

" _And your favorite Beatles song was 'Penny Lane,' with 'Yellow Submarine' a close second. That was when I realized just how whimsical you really were."_

" _If she was that whimsical, how come she didn't pick 'Gonna Buy Me a Dog' or 'Auntie Grizelda' as her favorite Monkees song?" Mac asked._

" _I said she was whimsical, not tone deaf! Anyway, she_ _ **did**_ _like those songs when she was in a silly mood. But when she was in a_ _ **romantic**_ _mood—which happened much too often for a girl as young as she was back then—she preferred the other two."_

" _You never had a favorite romantic Beatles song?" Jamie asked._

 _Darla shook her head. "Not during the_ _ **Monkees**_ _years. When I was in high school I developed a liking for 'And I Love Her,' though."_

" _Unfortunately, I wasn't around all that much by then, so I had no way of knowing that," I pointed out._

" _Duly noted," said Darla. "Okay. Next question. What's my favorite color?"_

" _As I recall, you had two: blue and yellow—blue for the sky, yellow for the sun." A tender smile crossed my face as I recollected how I'd come by that information. "I seem to remember a certain leprechaun . . ."_

" _That was so long ago! How could you—"_

" _How could I_ _ **forget**_ _? The leprechaun incident is what started the whole 'crush' thing."_

 _Mac shook his head as though to clear it of fuzz. "Wait a minute. What have the colors blue and yellow got to do with a leprechaun?"_

" _And how did a leprechaun cause Aunt Darla to get a crush on you?" Jamie queried._

 _Mac looked intently at me. "C'mon, Jack . . . spill it."_

 _I cocked my head in Darla's direction and said, "It's up to Darla. It's_ _ **her**_ _story."_

 _Darla looked at me and smiled. "So, I get to tell an amusing anecdote after all!"_

" _From what_ _ **I**_ _recall, it wasn't all that amusing."_

 _Darla shrugged. "Ancient history. We'll_ _ **both**_ _tell the story; but I'll start it since you weren't there at the beginning. You jump in from the time I got on the bus."_

 _I nodded._

" _It was St. Patrick's Day, 1960," Darla began, putting down what was left of the roll she had mostly eaten. "Jack had turned ten about two months before; and I was two months away from turning six. I was in kindergarten and he was in fourth grade. We rode the same bus to the same grade school every day._

" _Miss O'Hanlon, my kindergarten teacher, gave each of us a picture of a leprechaun to color. It was a standard picture—much like what you'd find in an ordinary coloring book. Then she handed out the individual boxes of eight crayons. . .._

" _There were cutouts of leprechauns, pots of gold, rainbows and shamrocks hanging up all over the room. (Miss O'Hanlon had put them up as soon as Washington's Birthday had passed; President's Day hadn't been invented yet). It wasn't hard, then, for any of the kids in the class to figure out how to color a leprechaun. They all dutifully got out their green, black, brown and yellow crayons: green for the clothes, black for the hat, shoes and belt, brown for the hair, and yellow for the golden buckles. Since we didn't have a flesh-colored crayon in those little boxes of eight, how we colored the leprechaun's skin—or even_ _ **if**_ _we did—was entirely up to us."_

" _Now comes the good part," I editorialized with a smile. Darla looked sideways at me, a little miffed, I guess, that I'd interrupted her flow. "Sorry," I apologized._

" _Anyway," she went on, "I didn't want to color my leprechaun the same as everyone else's. Although I have nothing against green—I'm a big fan of grass and trees—blue and yellow were my favorite colors because (as Jack said) the sky is blue and the sun is yellow; and there was nothing I liked better as a little girl then bright, sunshiny days. So, I colored my leprechaun blue and yellow. I made his clothes blue and his hat and shoes yellow. I did make his hair black, though, just so it stood out. Due to my non-conformity, Miss O'Hanlon gave me a 'D' and berated me in front of the entire class."_

" _That's terrible!" spoke up Jamie. "A woman like that has no business teaching impressionable young five-year-olds."_

" _What did you do?" Mac asked Darla. "Aside from crying, I mean." Darla didn't take offense at the remark. It would be difficult to imagine any kindergartner_ _ **not**_ _crying under those circumstances._

" _Fortunately, it was the end of the day. I took my picture, put on my coat, and left without saying a word to anyone. I was kind of slow, though, since I was so upset. So, when I got on the bus, all of the seats were pretty much full, and all of the kids who were in my class that rode the same bus I did were still sniggering about it, and no one would let the 'colorblind cry baby' sit next to them. The bus driver, being a man with no children of his own—and not likely to get any in the near future—was less than sympathetic. He didn't care where I went; he just wanted me to find a seat and plant myself."_

 _At that moment, the waitress returned, took our empty salad plates away and left our beverages. "I'll be right back with your meals," she told us with a smile._

" _You may now continue the story from where I left off," Darla told me, "now that I'm on the bus."_

" _Right," I acknowledged. Turning my attention to Jamie and Mac, I said, "The moment I heard the ruckus, I looked up and saw Darla standing in the aisle, looking brokenhearted and dejected. Everyone was staring at her, some of the kids were laughing at her, and the bus driver was yelling at her._

" _Now, my buddies and I had possession of the back seat. Even though we were only in fourth grade, we outnumbered the fifth and sixth graders from our neighborhood, so they pretty much left us alone. I told my friends I was gonna go help Darla find a seat. They thought I was nuts. If the truth be told, I did, too. I knew I'd hear about it the next day, but I didn't care. I just couldn't stand to see that poor little girl, standing there in the aisle, with virtually everyone on the bus giving her a hard time. So I got up and made my way slowly down the aisle, perusing every bench, looking for a likely spot for Darla. About five or six seats up from the back there was a big, fat kid—a third grader, I think he was. He had B.O. and bad breath, and was about the only person on the bus who, at that moment, was less popular than Darla. I leaned down and said to him, 'Tubby, get your butt to the back seat. If my buddies complain, tell them they can take it out of my hide tomorrow.' So he did. He got up and moved—I'm assuming to the back seat. I didn't look to see: I was too busy sitting down and trying to catch Darla's eye."_

" _Which he did," Darla broke in. "By the way, Jack, 'Tubby,' as you so graciously called him, went to the back seat, and all your buddies scooted over into one corner, leaving him the other corner. After that, I looked at you and saw you gesturing for me to come and sit by you."_

" _And that's how it all started," said Jamie. "It's so simple, yet so . . . poignant."_

" _But that was just the beginning," Darla said. "There's more to come."_

" _Which we'll talk about in a minute," I said, as the waitress delivered our main courses. "Mm! Looks delicious!" I rubbed my hands together, picked up my silverware, and dug in._

" _So, tell us some more stories, you guys," Jamie begged before stuffing another forkful of salad into her mouth._

" _I'll try to talk between mouthfuls," I replied. "But before we tell you_ _ **more**_ _stories, we need to finish the_ _ **first**_ _one. . . When Darla said my letting her sit by me on the bus was just the beginning, she meant_ _ **of that particular incident**_ _," I clarified._

" _So, what happened next, then?" Mac queried._

" _Darla told me everything that'd happened; and, like you, Jamie, I was appalled that any woman who was teaching kindergartners could be that callous. Darla was hurting, and it didn't seem fair—or right. . .._

" _I looked at the picture. It was amazing. She had managed to do something most kindergartners are incapable of: she'd colored inside the lines. So what if it looked more like a cub scout than a leprechaun? Isn't art about creativity and objectivity? Isn't it more about_ _ **what's inside of the artist**_ _than it is about what's 'normal' or acceptable?"_

" _These days it is," interpolated Mac, "although_ _ **I**_ _prefer art that actually_ _ **looks like**_ _what it represents. But I don't have a problem with polka-dotted teddy bears, pink hippos or purple dinosaurs; so I don't see any reason why you can't have an occasional leprechaun that isn't the standard green."_

" _(That's very open-minded of you, bro.) Anyway, when we got home, I went with Darla to her house and explained the situation to Mrs. McIntyre. I did it for two reasons: firstly, because I didn't want Darla to have to tell the story all over again; and second, because I thought Darla had suffered enough for one day, and it occurred to me that Mrs. McIntyre might see nothing but the 'D' and get upset with Darla, too, which would only make her feel worse. Having heard the story and Darla's feelings on the matter, I knew what needed to be said; and I figured I could do a better job of it than Darla could, seeing as how she was only five and her vocabulary was still somewhat limited._

" _So, I presented the case before Mrs. McIntyre in such a way that her protective instincts as a mother took over and booted her concern over the 'D' right out the window. She thanked me for bringing Darla home and explaining the situation to her so thoroughly. She then said she was going to pay Mr. Crawley, the principal, a visit before school in the morning and have a few words with him about Miss O'Hanlon. I volunteered to go along as an eyewitness to the indignity and persecution Darla had suffered on the bus because of Miss O'Hanlon's actions."_

" _No kidding! I never imagined you could be so caring and conscientious toward a little girl you barely knew!" piped up my brother._

" _Stow it, Mac. . . I did it more because I abhorred the injustice of the situation rather than out of any particular fondness for Darla; we hadn't gotten to that point yet. This was only the_ _ **first**_ _incident. As you say, I didn't really_ _ **know**_ _her yet."_

" _So, what happened when you and Grandma went to see the principal?" Jamie asked._

" _Mrs. M. explained the situation to_ _ **him**_ _pretty much the same way_ _ **I**_ _explained it to her, and she said she was appalled by Miss O'Hanlon's behavior; Mr. Crawley agreed. He got on the intercom, summoned Miss O'Hanlon to his office, and laid down the law to her. She was not to grade art projects on whether or not they were done in the normal or usual fashion, but on how_ _ **well done**_ _they were. Judging a picture by its colors alone, he said, was unfair. Children could often be whimsical, so allowances needed to be made. Darla's leprechaun was superbly colored and deserved an 'A' rather than a 'D' in_ _ **his**_ _estimation. If she started scribbling, or coloring outside the lines the way some of her classmates did, then she could give her a 'D'. Miss O'Hanlon was very intimidated and humbled by the scolding; and, afraid of losing her job because of her insensitivity, she agreed to everything Mr. Crawley laid out in the way of rules of conduct for her. She admitted that she'd had very little training as an art teacher, and she had graded it solely on what she, personally, considered to be acceptable. She then apologized to Darla and Mrs. M. and promised to make a formal apology to Darla in front of the entire class and to hang Darla's picture on the wall with all of the others, expunging the 'D' in whatever way she could—from both the paper and her grade book."_

" _And you never had to say a thing," Mac inferred._

" _Nope. Mr. Crawley did ask me why I was there and I told him. He smiled at me and said it was nice to see me in his office for a_ _ **good**_ _reason instead of a bad one for once. He hoped it was the turning over of a new leaf for me."_

" _Was it?" Jamie queried._

" _What do you think? Darla became my personal project—and my shadow—for the next several years . . . and never again did I set foot in any principal's office for misbehaving—which was quite a surprise to Mom and Dad."_

" _And there you have the story of how and why I fell in love with Jack Beckham," Darla said, smiling at me with her eyes as well as her mouth._

" _Under those circumstances, I think any girl would," said Jamie._

" _So, what was the price you had to pay when your buddies confronted you the next day?" Mac asked me._

 _I shrugged. "Nothing."_

" _What do you mean, 'nothing'?"_

" _If you'd let me explain . . . ."_

" _Sorry."_

 _I looked at the girls. "The man has no patience! . . . Anyway, after we left the principal's office, I walked Darla to class. I wanted to make sure she got there okay without any of her classmates stopping to tease her. I figured that walking with an older boy might give her some status—undo some of the damage, and Miss O'Hanlon's public apology in front of the class would do the rest._

" _After dropping Darla off, I headed for my own room. My buddies were all waiting for me there. 'You sweet on the girl next door, Beckham?' They asked me. 'Not really,' I told them. 'I just don't like to see defenseless little kids being picked on. If you've got a problem with that, take it up with Mr. Crawley.' They were more than a little surprised to find out that I'd gone_ _ **on purpose**_ _to the principal's office with Mrs. McIntyre. They were duly impressed—especially during lunch, when Mr. Crawley smiled and said hello to me as though I were his favorite student. I was treated with much more respect after that; so was Darla. End of story . . . that particular one, anyway."_

" _What you said was only partly true," Darla said quietly. "_ _ **I**_ _was only treated with 'more respect' for a little while."_

 _I sighed. "Yeah, life is never easy when you're an independent thinker."_

" _It wasn't always my independent thinking that caused me problems, though."_

" _True. It might've gotten you into trouble with some of your less liberal_ _ **teachers**_ _; but there were other things that kept you from being popular with your_ _ **classmates**_ _."_

" _Being bad at sports has to be at the top of the list," she admitted. "I was always picked last for teams. I had two left feet—I was always tripping over them; and I was scared to death of flying balls—especially if they were coming directly toward me."_

" _I remember the day you told me how much you hated P.E. because of all those problems you had. Recess you could handle: playing with your friends was always fun. But P.E. required skills you didn't have. That would get anybody down."_

" _No matter how 'down' I was, it wasn't right for me to lay all my problems on you, Jack. But, after the leprechaun incident, I couldn't help myself."_

" _Now, wait a minute, Aunt Darla," broke in Jamie. "Are you saying that every time you had a problem at school, you cried on_ _ **Jack's**_ _shoulder?"_

 _Darla nodded. "I sat on the front porch, waiting for him to come home. Whenever he saw me sitting there crying, he'd come over to comfort and console me."_

" _It wasn't that big of a deal," I said, shrugging. "I enjoyed being needed. Darla was the only person in my life who made me feel that way. Even Mom and Dad made me feel like I had only one purpose in life: to make them proud—to show what great parents they were."_

" _I doubt very much that that was their intention," Darla said. "But, since you felt that way, I'm glad I took advantage of you." She was wearing that cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile again._

" _What do you mean, you took advantage of me?"_

" _Didn't you ever wonder—all those times that you came home from school and found me sitting on my front porch crying—why I was sitting_ _ **there**_ _, of all places?"_

" _I just assumed you liked sitting on your front porch."_

 _Darla reddened. Jamie shook her head and smiled cryptically. Mac sniggered._

" _What? Is there some deeper meaning behind this that I'm not getting?"_

" _Shall I tell him Aunt Darla?—or would you rather do it?"_

 _Darla shrugged. "Since you and I have never discussed this before, he can't accuse us of collusion. Go ahead and tell him, Jamie."_

 _Jamie cleared her throat, sat up straight, looked at me squarely and said, "My dear Admiral Beckham, when a girl is hurting and needs to have a good cry, she usually goes someplace where she can be alone . . . like her bedroom, her back yard, a large closet, a hiding place in the basement. . . She doesn't generally go out to her front porch where everyone passing by the house can see her sitting and crying her eyes out."_

" _Meaning . . ."_

" _She did it just to get your attention and sympathy, bro," Mac put in, smiling sardonically._

 _I looked at Darla, startled. "Is that true?"_

 _She nodded, blushing. "I'm afraid it is. You were so good to me in kindergarten that I wanted to make sure you_ _ **stayed**_ _sympathetic. It wasn't easy, though, to tell you all those things about myself: all of my flaws and shortcomings; all of the things my classmates—and some of my teachers—found so distasteful. I had friends, but_ _ **they**_ _were primarily outcasts, too (although not always for the same reasons). We pretty much hung together; but that didn't make my own aberrations any easier to bear. . .._

" _There were times I wished I'd been born prettier, or more graceful; that I hadn't been cursed with myopia and finickiness. The only thing that made those years at all bearable was having you there to talk to. You encouraged me and told me those things didn't matter—that it was who I was_ _ **inside**_ _that counted most. You put your arm around me, squeezed me and kissed me on the head. My mom said similar things to me, but it didn't mean as much. Moms_ _ **always**_ _love and encourage you, no matter what. But_ _ **you**_ _were an older boy—and a_ _ **popular**_ _one. Your kind words—however insincere they may actually have been—meant the world to me; and that, my dear Jack, is why I had such a longstanding crush on you and grew up in love with you. The leprechaun incident, as they say, was the tip of a very large iceberg."_

 _That last speech lasted long enough to give me time to get over the initial shock—time enough, too, to realize that it didn't matter_ _ **why**_ _she had laid her burdens on me. All that mattered was that she had; and those talks had meant almost as much to me as they did to her._

 _I looked across the table at the woman that my "personal project" had become and I said, "My words were never insincere, Darla. However awkward you might've been, however clumsy or ungainly you might've felt . . . I always genuinely cared about you. You were very special to me. I hope you know that."_

" _I do." She was smiling again. "Do you remember our first kiss?" she asked._

 _"_ _ **I**_ _sure do," spoke up Mac. "It was during Christmas vacation in 1969. Mom'd hung a sprig of mistletoe just inside the front entrance. As soon as Darla found out Jack was home from Annapolis, she ran right over to see him, in spite of the fact that the snow was three feet deep in both yards, and she was still in her pajamas."_

" _I slept in during the holidays," Darla admitted with a shrug. "Mom told me about Jack as soon as I went to the kitchen for breakfast. I got more than a little excited. Anyway," she said defensively, "I was wearing a robe over my flannel pajamas—and I put my snow boots on."_

 _I smiled. This was the Darla I'd been so fond of._

" _I see where this is heading," said Jamie. "But who caught whom under the mistletoe?"_

" _Darla_ _ **got**_ _me under the mistletoe, but she didn't exactly_ _ **catch**_ _me," I said. "Either way, it was more or less inevitable, since I was the one who answered the door when she rang the bell. She was well aware that the mistletoe was there, since she'd been babysitting Mac on a regular basis (while Dad was at work and Mom was out Christmas shopping)."_

" _So, did she shove you under it or something?" Jamie wanted to know._

" _No, she was much more subtle than that. It played out kind of like this: I greeted Darla warmly and opened the storm door to let her in. While I was busy shutting both doors, she got under the mistletoe and waited. The situation did_ _ **not**_ _escape my notice. 'You do realize you're standing under the mistletoe, right?' I asked her. She nodded. I then said, 'So, you want me to kiss you, huh?' She nodded again."_

 _Put in Darla, "I have to say, I was trying hard not to appear too eager, but it wasn't easy."_

" _You didn't look overly eager to me," I said. "I knew you had a crush on me, and I assumed you were using the mistletoe as an excuse to get something you'd wanted for a long time."_

" _Didn't quite work out the way_ _ **either**_ _of us wanted, though, did it, Jack?"_

" _A peck on the cheek or the forehead was all you had in mind, huh, Jack?" Jamie asked._

" _Precisely. But Darla wasn't about to settle for that."_

" _No, I wasn't. I was fifteen. I'd invested nearly_ _ **ten**_ _**years**_ _in trying to develop some kind of a relationship with this man. So, the moment he stepped under the mistletoe and lowered his head to kiss my cheek, I turned my head so that he ended up kissing my lips instead. Since he had only intended to peck me on the cheek, it was a very_ _ **brief**_ _kiss. But it was warm and tasted like hot chocolate."_

 _Darla's voice sounded almost little girlish, as though she were reliving it in her mind . . . which, I suppose, was more or less the case._

" _I was, to say the least, startled," I confessed. "I was trying to figure out what to say to her, but before I could utter a word, she pulled away, bolted for the door, said, 'Merry Christmas, Jack, and welcome home!' Then she left."_

" _Aunt Darla, you were shameless," Jamie scolded her._

 _Darla nodded. "Yes, I was. I was very much in love with a man who only saw me as a little girl. It was very frustrating. I tried everything I could to get him to notice me—to see that I was growing up." She shook her head. "It was all to no avail. He married Liz; end of story."_

" _Not quite the end, end," I said. "Today we started a whole new chapter—maybe even a whole new book. It's time we stopped dredging up the old memories and made some new ones." I was looking at Darla very intently. I think my brother got the hint. He decided it was time to go home._


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

When all of our meals had pretty much been eaten and Jack and Darla began to give each other "the look," I said, "Why don't I flag down the server and ask her to bring the check. Then we can head back to Dad's and take a look at the dictation."

"I'll get the check and you take care of the tip," Jack suggested, still gazing affectionately across the table at Darla as he spoke.

"All right," I agreed, shrugging. Then, "If you like, I'll drive home so you two can have a little time alone together in the back seat."

"It's only five and a half blocks," Jack reminded me, also shrugging. "What's the point? Anyway, we oughta find out if the girls _want_ to go to Dad's with us, or if they'd rather go home. Jamie may not even be interested in looking at the dictation."

"No, I'm not," my date admitted—to my dismay. "Since I'm not really directly involved in any of this (and I prefer to keep it that way), I think I'd rather go home. I left my car at Aunt Darla's, so you can just drop me there."

"Darla, what about you?" Jack queried gently, looking at her more . . . _tenderly_ than I'd ever seen him look at anyone . . . except Joey when he was still alive.

"I hate to say it," Darla replied, smiling softly at my brother, "but I should go home, too." Don't misunderstand me, Jack," she added quickly when his face fell. "I've thoroughly enjoyed spending so much time with you. But I have to get up early tomorrow: I do still have a paper to put out, you know."

Jack was a lot less depressed once he knew that Darla's reasons for going home had nothing to do with him. "Understood," he said in an upbeat tone of voice. "So, how about this: Tomorrow morning Mac and I will come to your office as soon as we're decent and take you out to . . . brunch(?)—if you can get away for an hour or two. When we get back, we can look over the dictation in your office."

"Now hold on a minute, Jack," I objected. "This finding Dad thing is _supposed_ to be just you and me . . . isn't it? I mean, from my understanding of what Uncle George said, if Darla had another copy of the so-called 'evidence,' she was supposed to give it to you and then turn us loose to sort it out."

"Not necessarily," my brother said. "When Uncle George sent me to Darla, it was in the hope—his _and_ Dad's—that she and I would hit it off. What would be the point in bringing Darla and me together if you and I just took the evidence and locked ourselves away somewhere with it? . . . No, I think Dad _intended_ Darla to work with us on this thing—at least as much as her job at the paper will allow . . . especially since she has no more idea where Dad is than _we_ do."

"I agree," said Darla, "which is why Jack's idea to work on it in my office is a good one. I can be onsite to do my job, and help you guys at the same time."

"And when am I supposed to see Jamie?"

My dinner date smiled at me mockingly, with one arm lying atop the other as she leaned on the edge of the table. "I'm still here, Mac, and I'd appreciate it if you'd consult with me before attempting to make plans of any kind that might involve me."

My mouth almost dropped open; but, in my line of work, I've had to become a master in the art of the quick recovery. "I'm sorry if I made an incorrect assumption, Jamie. It's just that I've really enjoyed your company this evening, and I kind of had the feeling you might feel the same way . . ."

"I do," she said. Then, shaking her head, she continued, "But that's not the point."

"I realize that now. Again, I apologize. So then, would you like to go out with me again sometime?" At this point, I was not at all sure what kind of response to expect.

"Yes, I would," Jamie said (causing me to think " _Phew!"_ and to mentally wipe my forehead with relief). "Trouble is, I'm really swamped at work right now: sometimes I stay late, and sometimes I'm just plain exhausted at the end of a long day. I came on this double date tonight more as a favor to _Aunt_ _Darla_ than anything else. . . About the only time I'm able to go out is on the weekends—Saturday or Sunday. A handful of projects at the lab are on watch 24/7 and the people who work on _those_ have rotating shifts; so, the rest of us usually get weekends off. But, other than that, I'm pretty much unavailable."

"You don't break for lunch?" I asked matter-of-factly.

"Of course I break for lunch," she replied, blushing slightly. "But I usually don't go anywhere. I bring lunch from home and eat at my station."

Darla was shaking her head in disbelief. "I told Jack you didn't date much because most men are intimidated by your intelligence. I can see now that I was only _partly_ right. . . Sweetie, didn't anyone ever tell you that all work and no play makes Jamie a dull girl? You need to cut loose once in a while! Have some fun now and then. It's not as if the world is going to end tomorrow."

"Some of the people I work with think it will," was Jamie's reply.

Darla shook her head. "I'd venture to estimate that—despite the steadily declining morals of the general populace and the tenuous political condition of the world as a whole—we have _at_ _least_ another twenty years before either God or the politicians blow us all to kingdom come. Regardless of what the pessimists might say, no one is in _that_ much of a hurry to die."

"Except for those terrorists who believe they'll spend eternity in Heaven with a multitude of virgins and sumptuous feasts," Jack commented.

"Let's not get into that right now, please," said Darla to my brother. Turning to Jamie, she said, "Enjoy life while you can, kid. Don't let it pass you by while you spend all your time in a laboratory trying to save the world from itself."

Jamie nodded at her aunt and sighed. "I know. You're right." Pausing momentarily, she then looked across the table at me and said, "All right, Mac. Come to my lab day after tomorrow and we'll have lunch together."

I was about to ask "Why the day after tomorrow," but then I remembered that Jack and I were going to be having brunch with Darla in the morning. "Day after tomorrow it is," I finally said. "So, could you give me the address of this place, and maybe some instructions on how to get there?"

Jamie nodded, took a business card out of her purse and drew a small map on the back of it. She then handed it to me and I looked it over. "Clear enough," I said, nodding. "I think I can find my way there without much difficulty."

"There's a coffee shop right across the street. It's next door to a hotel that's used by a lot of our clients (and _other_ people who come to that part of town on business). We can probably get a decent meal there, if you're interested."

"Why not? I'm not particularly picky." I looked at Darla, smiled roguishly and winked.

Jack said, "If you two are through planning your social life . . . ." He snapped his fingers as the server passed by and he managed to get her attention.

She came over, harried and in a hurry. "Do you guys need something else?"

"Just the check," Jack stated.

She wrote out the total and set it—face-down—on the table in front of Jack. "What's the damage?" I asked. He showed me. "Not bad. I can handle a fifteen percent tip on that."

"Good. You take care of that while I go to the register and pay this thing." Darla went with Jack while Jamie stayed behind with me.

"So, what do you think?" I asked as I stood up and reached into my pocket for my wallet. "About the two of them, I mean."

"I'm not sure; they seem to really care about each other, but Aunt Darla's still pretty vulnerable. I'd like to see them get together, but I think it could take longer than Jack might be expecting it to."

"Why?" I queried, frowning.

"Aunt Darla and Uncle Frank were happily married. So, even if she still has feelings for Jack, when it comes down to brass tacks, she may find she's not ready for another serious relationship yet."

I nodded. "Maybe. But if what I saw and heard tonight is any indication, _Jack's_ ready. He genuinely loves Darla. I have no doubt that he'll wait however long it takes for her to come around. If he had to, I think he'd even resign his commission so he'd be available to spend more time with her."

"I don't know Jack well enough to agree or disagree with that statement," Jamie said. "Knowing Aunt Darla, though, if Jack _did_ resign his commission for her, she'd feel guilty. He'd have to give her a better reason than that, or she wouldn't let him do it."

"You're undoubtedly right," I agreed. "We'll have to wait and see what the future brings. Oh! Jack's waving at us; time to go." Jamie nodded, slid her arm through mine, and we headed for the door.

As I opened the back door of the Jeep one more time for Jamie, I couldn't help wondering why in the world I _did_ want to go out with her again. Yeah, she was pretty . . . and she was as intelligent as Jack had said. But she was also very _driven_. I suppose most scientists are. It was what she was _working_ on that puzzled me so much.

On the way to the restaurant, she'd told me she was trying to come up with a way to create a stable artificial wormhole that could be used to sort of _bend_ _space_ , so that traveling from one solar system—or even from one _galaxy_ —to another would take a lot less time.

Scientists have been working for several years on things that sci-fi authors had been writing about for decades: stasis fields, warp speed, hyper-drives, and cryogenic sleep (or suspended animation). Those were the tools sci-fi writers used to get humans from Earth to other planets. Voyages like that would take years, and the stasis fields or cryogenic chambers would slow down the aging process. Thus far, though, the scientists involved in those projects had met with little to no success. Jamie, therefore, was working on an alternate solution. A worthy and noble undertaking, to be sure. . . But a _stable artificial wormhole?_ That, too, sounded like science fiction.

Still, I couldn't help being fascinated by the idea. _What if she managed to do it?_ I didn't really think there was much chance of it, but . . . it was fun to listen to her expound on it. I guess that's the reason I wanted to go out with her again. As driven as she was, her radical theories made for pretty interesting conversation . . . and she was willing to listen to me spout off about animal rights, pollution, rain forests, eco-terrorism and all the rest of it.

One of the things my undercover work had done for me on a personal level was to make me more aware of what's really going on in the world—things most people don't spend much time thinking about, even though groups like those I "joined" were attempting to raise public awareness, primarily in hopes of getting more support for their causes. Fact is, I had actually made contributions to each and every one of them. Even though it'd started out as being a part of my cover—to convince the folks in charge that I was on the level—I continued doing it, long after my sincerity stopped being in question.

Yeah, the world is in chaos. _My_ solution is for us lowly humans to clean it up as best as we can. Jamie's is to prepare for the worst, i.e., humanity ultimately destroying itself. I wondered if I could ever make a convert out of her—or maybe "optimist" is a better word. I have no doubt that the world's going to come to an end someday . . . not that I'm overly religious or anything. But, judging from what's been happening in recent decades, I tend to believe what it says in the Bible: when God gets completely fed up, He's gonna call a halt to the whole mess; He's _not_ gonna wait around for us to do it to ourselves. Therefore, my feelings on the matter are that the more we try to help make things better, the more time we can buy for ourselves and our poor, abused planet. If I could get Jamie to see things from that point of view, maybe I could get her working on something more productive . . . like increased crop yields, weather control devices, or more cost-efficient ways of cleaning up pollution. . . Of course, those things aren't really in her field. . . I'd have to give it a little more thought. . ..


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

 _The five-and-a-half block drive back to Darla's condo was pretty uneventful. By this time I was really wishing I hadn't rented a Jeep with standard transmission. I hated the way the bucket seats and the stick shift got between Darla and me—especially now._

 _The first thing I did once we were all securely buckled into our respective seats was to apologize to Darla for the inconvenience. Then I said, "If I'd known I was going to meet up with you, I would've rented a nice, comfortable, cozy sedan; fully loaded, with automatic transmission and power everything. Then I could've taken you anywhere in style."_

" _Well," Darla teased, "you can always go back to the airport and trade up . . . ."_

" _I know you were just kidding," I said, "but that's not a bad idea. If we're going to be spending some quality time together, I'd really like to pamper you . . . and be able to drive with my arm around your shoulders." (This was back in the days when sedans still had bench seats—no compartment in the middle to get in the way of romance.)_

" _In the meantime," said Darla, "we improvise and compromise." As she said this, she placed her hand over mine on the gearshift and smiled at me. I smiled back._

 _Shortly thereafter, we reached Mile High Village, and I pulled into Darla's driveway and parked. Mac and I then both exited the vehicle and went around to let the ladies out. While Mac walked arm in arm with Jamie to her Saturn—which was parked at the curb—I took hold of Darla's hand and walked with her up the driveway, across the sidewalk, and onto the little stoop that passed as a porch._

 _After we stepped up onto the stoop, I took hold of Darla's other hand too, and said, "This might not be the best way to start a 'saying-good-night-at-the door' conversation, but I've just gotta say, today has to've been one of the all-time_ _ **weirdest**_ _days I've ever spent in my life . . . but that's not a_ _ **bad**_ _thing. It's been weird in a_ _ **good**_ _way. Finding you again after all these years, spending time with you . . . It's made me realize how much I've missed you. I honestly never thought I'd see you again, particularly after your folks moved south. Right now I'm feeling . . . strangely at peace. I haven't been this_ _ **content**_ _in a really long time."_

 _She smiled and said, "I'm glad. You seem more relaxed than you were this morning."_

" _Oh, I am;_ _ **believe me**_ _, I am. This morning I was afraid there might be some . . . repercussions—that you might be holding a grudge . . . ." I trailed off deliberately, hoping she understood my meaning._

" _When you got engaged to Liz it did hurt, Jack. But I loved you far too much for too long to be able to hold a grudge—against you_ _ **or**_ _her. . . This morning I was just glad to see you again—alive and well. And I realize now, despite what I said this morning, that I've missed you, too."_

" _I think I love you, Darla," I blurted out._

 _She smiled. "Then don't you think it's about time you kissed me?" she asked beguilingly._

" _Really? I mean, are you sure you want me to—?"_

 _She looked at me pointedly. "Would I have said anything if I didn't?. . . And don't tell me you haven't been thinking about it, because I've seen it in your eyes."_

" _Well, yeah, of course I've been_ _ **thinking**_ _about it. I just wasn't sure if you were ready yet. . . I mean, you haven't been a widow all that long; and this_ _ **is**_ _our first date, after all . . ."_

" _Jack, if we had_ _ **just**_ _ **met**_ _and this was our first date, then, yes, I might have a problem with your trying to kiss me already; after all, I'm an old-fashioned girl. But, under the circumstances, I'm not sure this actually qualifies as a first—"_

 _I put a finger to her lips to shush her, then wrapped my arms around her and kissed her—the way I_ _ **should've**_ _kissed her years ago. I was barely aware of Jamie driving away, and totally oblivious to my brother and_ _ **his**_ _whereabouts. All I was conscious of at that moment was Darla—how she felt in my arms and how sweet her lips tasted._

 _And, as is usually the case when you genuinely care about someone—or when you're just really attracted to them (and in this case it was both)—one kiss wasn't enough. My feelings—both physical and emotional—got the better of me. I gathered her fully into my arms and kissed her again—more deeply this time. When I stopped kissing her and held her against me, I could feel her quivering in my arms. She went weak in the knees, sighed, and said, "Oh, Jack!" I then kissed her nose, as I had often done when she was a kid, after which I laid my cheek on her head. (She's short enough for me to be able to do that.)_

 _I have to say that I'd never before tasted lips that sweet. I'd always thought the whole idea of sweet-tasting lips was nothing but a myth, invented by romance novelists and perpetuated by men who were_ _ **so**_ _enamored of a woman that they'd think her_ _ **feet**_ _tasted good. . . Now, if the lips under discussion had recently_ _ **been**_ _ **in contact with**_ _something sweet, the saying would undoubtedly be true. However, in Darla's case, it was_ _ **absolutely**_ _true. I thought to myself,_ _ **I could happily spend the rest of my days doing nothing but kissing and tasting these delectable lips**_. _In fact, for a few heady moments, I felt as if I could swallow her whole—and I came darned close to trying. In all the years I had known and been married to Liz,_ _ **her**_ _lips had_ _ **never**_ _tasted like that. It made me wonder why on God's green earth I had waited so long to do this. The sweetest lips in the world had been within easy reach for years, and all I'd ever given them was a quick peck under the Christmas mistletoe back in '69—and that had been an "accident" of_ _ **her**_ _doing. I felt like a complete idiot._

 _I loosened my hold on her just enough to draw back a little and look into her eyes. "I love you, D. J.," I told her. Then I planted a kiss on her forehead. She smiled wanly._

" _Just like when we were kids," she remarked. "You always kissed me on my nose or my forehead . . . or my cheek . . . or—"_

" _Even if I'd felt the same way about you back then that you felt about me, it wouldn't've been any different, simply because we_ _ **were**_ _just kids—especially you. Thank God that's not the case anymore. . . I wish now that I'd opened my eyes a little bit wider during my semester breaks from Annapolis—especially during your last two years in high school. . . If I'd_ _ **really**_ _looked at you—if I'd really_ _ **seen**_ _you—what you were becoming—things might've turned out differently for_ _ **both**_ _of us. . . I'm glad Dad arranged this. I've needed someone in my life for a long time; and now I know: the person I've needed all along is you."_

" _I love you, Admiral Beckham," she said, smiling softly; I really_ _ **love**_ _that smile. . .._

 _I kissed her again—not quite so passionately this time, but still . . . warmly. Then I gazed down at her and said, "I'd better let you get inside or we'll be here all night."_

" _If I didn't have to get up early tomorrow, and if you didn't have to drive Mac home, I'd invite you in," she said. "We still have a lot of catching up to do."_

" _And a lot of lost time to make up for," I added meaningfully. "But, I_ _ **do**_ _still have to get Mac home." I looked around. "I heard Jamie drive away—she's long gone; and there's no telling what my brother's been doing to entertain himself all this time. I don't see him anywhere."_

 _Darla shrugged and said, "Maybe he took a walk around the cul-de-sac."_

" _Which would take all of . . . forty-five seconds."_

" _Then maybe he went on a_ _ **longer**_ _walk—around the neighborhood. If he's not back by the time you're ready to leave, you can always drive around and look for him."_

" _Only if he left the keys in the ignition. My spare pair is back at the house."_

 _She nodded. "He'll be back. He probably just wanted to give us some time."_

" _That's uncharacteristically thoughtful of him." I paused and gazed into her eyes again. "I do love you, Darla. I always have."_

" _I know you do; and I also know you well enough not to expect you to say it too often. Words of encouragement you_ _ **never**_ _had trouble with; but words of affection always seemed to get caught in your throat. So, anytime you want to express your feelings for me, but you can't quite get the words out, just kiss me, Jack, the way you did just now. That's all I'll ever need to remind me of how much I mean to you."_

" _You are the most incredibly understanding woman . . . ."_

 _She smiled and put a hand on my cheek. "I've loved you forever, Jack Beckham—warts and all."_

" _I wish we had more time . . . ."_

" _When this is over, Admiral, we can take as much time as we want—and do it right."_

 _Unless I'm completely brain dead, that sounded like a, uh, marriage proposal maybe?—or something very much like it . . . a_ _ **desire**_ _to get married, anyway. . . I'd already made up my mind earlier in the evening that I was going to resign my commission once we found Dad and got him back home, safe and sound. But, as Jamie had expressed to Mac, I, too, sensed that Darla would feel guilty if I resigned my commission just so I could spend more time with her. I had to have a better reason than that if I expected her to accept it. But, till we_ _ **did**_ _find Dad, I had a grace period in which to try to come up with one._

 _My kid brother had finally returned from his walk. Darla and I both looked his way. He climbed into the Cherokee and said, "Take your time. I'm good."_

 _Darla smiled. "I suppose we oughta let him off the hook, huh?" she said with a sigh, taking her keys from her shoulder bag and separating out the front door key._

" _I suppose." I returned her smile._

" _I'll see you tomorrow morning in my office, then."_

" _Yes, you will. Mac and I will bring the dictation."_

" _Then, after brunch, the three of us can try to decipher it together."_

" _Sounds like a plan. And I'm looking forward to brunch."_

 _She nodded. "Me, too." Then she reached up and kissed me on the cheek. "G'night, Jack."_

 _I watched as she inserted her key into the lock and opened the door. Once I knew she was going to be able to enter her home safely, I gave her a last quick smile and nod. "G'night, D.J. Sleep tight." Then, as she closed the door, I turned around and headed for the Cherokee._


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

While Jack was driving us back to the old homestead, his cellphone began to ring. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled it out and handed it to me. "Answer that, will you? I hate trying to use a cellphone while I'm driving—especially when it's a stick shift." I had the phone open and was saying "Hello" before Jack had even finished speaking.

It was Aunt Edith, Uncle George's wife. She was carrying on something fierce.

"Aunt Edith, calm down!" I said. "You're not making any sense. Uncle George is missing? Since when?" I sighed. "Jack and I'll be there as soon as we can."

"What was that all about?" Jack queried, glancing my way for just a moment.

"Aunt Edith sent Uncle George to their local 7-11 to pick up a pint of half-and-half and a jar of stuffed green olives— . . . Don't look at me like that! I'm just repeating what Aunt Edith told me. Anyway, that was over an hour ago and he hasn't come back yet. . . Jack," I said, looking at my brother pensively, "there's something fishy going on."

"Yeah. But what?"

"Darla's sure that Dad made the whole thing up, right?—about there being an Al Qaeda spy in the White House?"

"She's _pretty_ sure, yeah. He seems to have laid it out for her as a plan to get you and me to bury the hatchet and to start getting along."

"But what if there really _is_ a spy in the White House and Dad only told Darla what he did in order to protect her?" I wondered aloud.

Jack looked thoughtful for a minute or two and then said, "We have no way of knowing for sure what's true and what isn't. I was ready to take Darla's word for everything. But, if Dad _did_ just feed her that line to protect her from the danger that might come from knowing the whole truth, then he would've had to've trusted her completely _not_ to tell me that he'd made the whole thing up. He would've _expected_ her to obey his orders _not_ to tell me it was a ruse, hoping that the two of us—you and me—would believe _Uncle George's_ version of things and try to find him."

"But if that's the case, then why is Uncle George missing now, too?" I queried—more to myself than to Jack. I was just wondering _aloud_ what I suspected we were both _thinking_.

"I have an idea about that," Jack said as he exited the freeway. "I could be wrong, but . . . What if Dad has Darla's office bugged, so he _knows_ she told me the truth? Having Uncle George 'disappear', too, would be a good way to try to convince us of the very thing we've just been debating: that the story is real and he was just trying to protect Darla."

"Aunt Edith did sound pretty upset . . ."

"Yes, but . . . if she was let in on the scheme, wouldn't she do her best to play the part of the distraught wife?" Jack put out the query generally, as he pulled into Dad's driveway. "If she _didn't_ react that way to Uncle George's disappearance, then I'd be _convinced_ it was all a set up. Under the circumstances, though, it's a hard call to make."

"Yeah, it is," I agreed, joining my brother in exiting the Cherokee. "For what it's worth, _I_ think we should proceed as planned. One way or the other, we have to decipher the clues Dad left us and try to find where he hid the evidence—real or not. It's the only way we're gonna find out the truth." I paused. "Why did we come _here_ instead of going straight to Aunt Edith?"

"Because, if it _is_ all a ruse," Jack began as he punched in the numbers to disarm the security system, "she'll probably phone either Dad or Uncle George after we leave to let them know we took the bait. If she _does_ make a call, I wanna listen in; so, we're picking up some surveillance equipment."

I shut the door as I followed Jack into the house and said, "Surveillance equipment? Really?"

"Yep. It's one of the smallest and most sensitive 'bugs' ever invented," Jack clarified, rummaging through his attaché case for the bug in question and its accompanying listening device. Having found both, he held up the 'bug' and said, "I can stick this baby anywhere in the living room and we'll hear everything Aunt Edith says and everything the person on the other end of the line is saying _back_ to her. All I have to do is put the earpiece in my ear as soon as we get out the front door."

"We should probably move the Jeep, though," I pointed out, as Jack slid the two tiny devices into a jacket pocket. "She'll get suspicious if we stay parked in front of the house."

"I'm not an idiot," Jack said. "I fully intended to move it." He then opened the front door of our childhood abode. I followed in his wake and reset the alarm as he explained, "The earpiece has a maximum range of about five hundred meters, so I can drive it up the road a bit and still get good reception."

"What if Aunt Edith calls from someplace other than the living room?" I asked as I got back into the Cherokee.

Jack shrugged, climbing in behind the wheel. "In that case, I'll stick it directly on Aunt Edith when I hug her—maybe under a collar or something . . ."

"If she _has_ a collar . . ." I remarked, buckling my seatbelt.

" _Would you stop that?_ " Jack complained. "Man, you're nit-picky tonight! Don't worry. I'll find someplace to put it, I promise. But, if by chance she _doesn't_ have a collar, I want _you_ to hug her first, so I have time to figure out where else it can go." He started the car.

I nodded and said, "You got it," as my brother backed out of the driveway and headed for Uncle George and Aunt Edith's place.

"One more order of business," Jack continued. "Whatever happens with Aunt Edith tonight will determine what we tell _Darla_ tomorrow. If Aunt Edith makes a phone call that leads us to believe Uncle George's story was real, we should respect Dad's desire to protect Darla and let her keep on believing that this whole thing is a sham. We do _not_ tell her that Uncle George has been kidnapped, too. . ..

"If, on the other hand, Aunt Edith calls Uncle George (or Dad) and tells him that we've fallen for it hook, line and sinker—letting us know for sure that it's a ruse—we tell Darla the truth . . . but _not_ in her office, just in case it _is_ bugged. Darla deserves the truth; but, once we decipher Dad's clues, we leave her to her work at the newspaper and go look for the hidden 'evidence'—and for Dad and Uncle George—on our own. Whatever happens along the way—and whatever we may find when we get there—D. J. will be safely out of it."

I nodded agreement. "I usually go with my gut in situations like this; but right now even my _gut_ is confused."

"Mine, too," Jack said. "That's why we just have to go with the flow and see where it takes us."

"There's nothing else we _can_ do," I agreed. "Here. . . This is the main road that leads into Uncle George's neighborhood."

A couple minutes later, Jack was parking the Cherokee in front of Uncle George and Aunt Edith's modest, middle-class home. Evidently, Aunt Edith had been watching for us. She virtually _ran_ out of the house, greeting us on the front stoop as we made our way toward it.

"Oh, thank goodness you've come!" she said anxiously, taking Jack by the right hand and me by the left. "I've been beside myself with worry for more than an hour! It only takes a few minutes to get to the 7-11 and back. . .."

Despite how frantic she seemed, she _looked_ cool as a cucumber—wardrobe-wise, at any rate: she was wearing pale, sea-green-turquoisish polyester slacks and some kind of semi-fancy polyester blouse in a shade that looked like cerulean blue— _and it had a collar_.

Jack quickly extracted his hand from hers and wrapped his arms around her neck, saying, "Everything's going to be all right, Aunt Edith." Following the brief embrace, he put his hands on her shoulders, which gave him access to her collar. He acted as though he were playing with it—on both sides. It was a good cover. "Just take us inside and tell us exactly what happened," he said.

Aunt Edith turned around and went through the door ahead of us. Jack indicated that _I_ should follow her inside, bringing up the rear himself. As he entered, he closed the door with his left hand, removed his hat, and, while holding it in his right hand, he said, "Maybe Uncle George just stopped somewhere on the way home to visit with a neighborhood friend."

Aunt Edith shook her head, as she indicated with an outstretched hand that we should be seated in the armchairs that faced opposite ends of the coffee table. "I already thought of that," she said. "I called everyone we know. Some of them saw him pass by on his way _to_ the store, but no one, it seems, saw him coming _back_. Oh, boys, I am _so_ worried! What could've _happened_ to him? Do you think I ought to call the police and report him missing? If not, what _should_ I do?"

Jack and I quickly disabused her of the notion of calling the cops. Unsure as yet whether Uncle George's disappearance was connected to Dad's and was all part of a ruse, neither of us liked the idea of calling in the police to look for a missing person who might not actually be missing—except, of course, by choice.

"We'll handle it, Aunt Edith," Jack assured her. After a brief pause, he added, "We didn't wanna tell you this, but . . . _Dad's_ missing, too. Whatever's going on, Mac and I are pretty sure they're together. Dad left us a few clues that _might_ help lead us to their whereabouts. (It's kind of hard to explain.) In any case, we're working on it, and we will find them, I promise you. By hook or by crook, we'll find Dad and Uncle George."

"But, why would anyone want to kidnap both Pete _and_ George? Pete I can understand: he's made a lot of enemies over the years, working at the newspaper. Somebody who was put in prison because of a story he wrote years ago could have just gotten out recently and gone after him; but that wouldn't explain _George's_ disappearance!" She suddenly looked at Jack accusingly. "You're keeping something from me, aren't you, Jack? There's something going on that you don't want me to know about!"

Jack nodded. "Yes, Aunt Edith, there is. It's something so dangerous that he even lied to _Darla Finley_ about it to protect her. That being the case, it's probably best if _you_ don't know the truth, either."

"You mean, I can't tell what I don't know, so if I don't know anything, no one will have any reason to abduct me, too."

"Precisely," said Jack. "Look, Aunt Edith, under the circumstances, it'd probably be best if you didn't remain here alone. You'd be safer in the company of others. So, if there's anyone—like a close friend or family member—that you haven't seen for a while and who has given you a standing invitation to come for a long visit, now would probably be a good time to accept that invitation. Knowing you're safe would ease our minds a great deal and make it easier for us to concentrate on trying to find Dad and Uncle George."

Aunt Edith nodded. "I'll call my sister, Dorothy, and ask her if I can come and stay with her for a while. She lives in Greeley. Is that far enough away, do you think?"

"Yeah, Greeley should be far enough away to keep you safe. But, if anyone asks, _don't_ tell them _where_ you're going. Just tell them you're going away for your health—a nice, restful vacation to . . . oh, I don't know . . . the hot springs in Thermopolis, Wyoming, maybe. Tell them you'll be out of touch while you're there, so they shouldn't try to contact you."

Aunt Edith blushed. "I don't like lying to people!" she declared. "But if I have to do it to protect George, Pete and myself, then . . . so be it."

 _Wow!_ I mused. _If Aunt Edith is in on the scheme, she's doing a darned good acting job!_

We left the house soon thereafter, and Jack inserted the tiny little earpiece, after which we hurried back to the Cherokee.

While Jack was driving us back to the old homestead, his cellphone began to ring. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled it out and handed it to me. "Answer that, will you? I hate trying to use a cellphone while I'm driving—especially when it's a stick shift." I had the phone open and was saying "


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

 _I could hear Aunt Edith muttering to herself, "I'll wait until they're well out of sight before I call. They may think of something else they want to tell me, or they may have left something behind and decide they need to come back for some reason." It sounded like she was pacing the floor, or maybe straightening a few things. I decided to put her out of her misery and drove off as quickly as I could, re-parking the Cherokee next to the fenced-in playground of a local elementary school that was still within range of the transmitter._

 _She was making her call even before I put the car into "park"._

" _Hello, dear. . . Yes, they came. They said they'd take care of everything. They want me to leave town for my own safety. Isn't that just like them? –so thoughtful! . . . I told them I'd go visit Dorothy, in Greeley; although, Jack said I should tell anyone who asks that I'm going to Thermopolis, Wyoming, and that I'll be out of touch while I'm there, so they shouldn't try to contact me. . . Do you know what? I think I'd_ _ **rather**_ _go to Thermopolis than to Dorothy's. I hear the hot springs there are just amazing, especially for people with arthritis. . . Really? You'll let me go? Oh, thank you, dear! That's wonderful! . . . What? You want me to buy one of those disposable cellphones, so that no one but you and Pete can call me while I'm there? Where do I—? Oh, okay. I'll go get one first thing in the morning and spend tonight packing my bag. . . Oh, dear! I'm going to have to buy myself a new bathing suit. . . George, are you sure this trip isn't going to cost too much money?. . . Yes, that's true: the mortgage has been paid off and our expenses are minimal these days . . . Thank you, dear; you're such a treasure! . . . You take care, too, and give Pete my love. . . All right, I will. Good night, dear."_

 _As Aunt Edith hung up the phone, I took the receiver out of my ear. I was smiling. "It's a ruse," I told my brother, "—no doubt about it. She was talking to Uncle George. She's decided she'd rather go to Thermopolis than to her sister's house in Greeley. . . Having met Dorothy, I don't really blame her."_

" _So, then . . . tomorrow we tell Darla the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, right?" Mac asked._

" _Yep," I confirmed._

" _Good! I'm looking forward to seeing her face when we do," Mac replied, grinning impishly._

" _Yeah, me too," I admitted, smiling softly as I started the Cherokee. "But," I reminded him as I put the vehicle into gear, "the hunt still belongs to us."_

" _Understood, bro. Understood." Mac folded his arms and sat back in his seat, looking thoughtful. "What say we get started on those clues as soon as we get home, huh?"_

 _I looked over at my brother for just a moment, but it was long enough to get a good glare across. "Nothing doing! I wanna spend as much time with Darla as I possibly can. No_ _ **way**_ _you're taking that away from me by jumping the gun tonight!"_

" _Okay, okay! Geez, don't bite my head off, Jack! I'm just anxious to get started, that's all."_

" _Why? The sooner we find Dad and Uncle George, the sooner you'll have to get back to your life in L.A.—which means leaving Jamie. Are you in a hurry to end that relationship before it even gets off the ground?"_

" _You've got a point." He nodded. "Okay. We'll take our time."_

" _Still, we don't wanna take_ _ **too**_ _much time, or Dad'll get suspicious and think we're deliberately dragging our feet."_

" _But we are," Mac pointed out._

" _Yeah, but we don't want_ _ **them**_ _to know that. We can't be too obvious about it."_

" _That's true . . ."_

" _Let's set ourselves a time limit of, say . . . two weeks?—tops, once we find the evidence. That'll give us some leeway in case we feel particularly thick or dimwitted once in a while."_

" _And it'll give me a little time to get to know Jamie better . . . although, I'm starting to wonder if I should even bother."_

" _Why?—because her ideas are a little . . . eccentric?"_

" _No, it's not that, it's just . . . it's what you said before—that sooner or later I'll have to go back to L.A. Then what? Do you really think—that in only two weeks' time—I can convince her to give up her job here and go to California with me? I'm not sure I'd even wanna_ _ **try**_ _."_

" _Then maybe you should consider leaving your job with the NSA and moving back here," I said sagely. "You could always work for us. Homeland has offices here in Colorado, you know."_

" _I'll have to give it some thought and see how things go with Jamie over the next couple of weeks. If nothing of any real . . ._ _ **significance**_ _develops between us by the time we find Dad and Uncle George, I guess I'll just head back to L.A. and that'll be that."_

" _But if things start to look_ _ **promising**_ _. . ."_

" _I'll consider your offer and see how Jamie would feel about my moving back here and continuing to see her. I just don't wanna throw away my career for something that might not pan out."_

" _No relationship is a guaranteed success, bro," I told him "You've just gotta take your chances. Anyway, you wouldn't be throwing away your career; you'd just be switching horses, that's all."_

" _Easy for you to say."_

" _Yeah, it is," I said, slightly miffed. "You think it was easy for me?—admitting that I was getting too old to fly safely anymore?—that I had to find something else to do with my career, or retire from the Navy entirely? . . . That was a complete and total change of direction for me. I was a_ _ **pilot**_ _, for crying out loud—a_ _ **squadron leader**_ _. Now, I'm a gol-durned desk jockey, answerable to a bunch of wet-behind-the-ears politicians who think they can run the world better than God can. . . I wish I could go back to flying, but I can't. At least if_ _ **you**_ _changed jobs you'd still be doing basically the same kind of work. You'd even have the same boss, generally speaking: the Government of the United States of America. I can pull some strings—lots of them—and get you whatever position you want in whatever section of Homeland interests you. They'd be glad to have you, believe me."_

 _Mac nodded. "I'll think about it, I promise. But, as I said, a lot depends on Jamie."_

" _Just don't tell_ _ **her**_ _that," I warned him as I pulled into the driveway. "Nothing'll scare a woman off faster than knowing that a man's future lies in_ _ **her**_ _hands. Wait and see what happens; and, if you decide to move back here and change jobs,_ _ **then**_ _tell her."_

" _But I still won't tell her that it has anything to do with her," Mac said while exiting the vehicle. "Instead I'll tell her that I'm moving back here because I found out I miss the place—that I'm homesick."_

 _After I, too, got out—and locked the doors—I looked across the hood of the Cherokee at Mac and smiled a crooked smile. "Good plan," I said, heading toward the front door, "—_ _ **r**_ _ **eal**_ _good plan. Even if she doesn't completely believe it, she'll be grateful that you're_ _ **not**_ _laying the whole thing at her feet."_

" _Which gives her an out, if she wants one," my brother inferred._

" _Exactly." I stopped on the stoop. "Cover me while I disarm the security system, would you?"_

" _Sure." Mac hovered near me, blocking the view of anyone who might be trying to get a peek at the numbers I was pushing on the keypad._

 _Once the alarm was turned off, I unlocked the door and we went inside. Then, while Mac shut the door behind us, I reset the alarm. "Man, I hate this thing!" I groused. "Turn it off, turn it on; set it, unset it. It's a royal pain!"_

" _Yeah, but at least we know we're safe."_

" _From housebreakers and thieves, yeah. But from terrorists?" I shook my head. "No one is totally safe from terrorists anymore."_

" _Your job has made you a cynic, Jack. Why would anyone want to attack Denver?"_

 _Looking sternly at my brother, I reminded him, "We're only a hop, skip and jump from Colorado Springs and Cheyenne Mountain, Mac, and Denver is the most populous city in Colorado. Like it or not, it's a possible prime target."_

 _Mac shook his head. "Not according to_ _ **my**_ _sources. Buried under all that granite, it'd take_ _ **way**_ _too much fire power to damage the Mountain to make it worthwhile; and Denver itself isn't all that highly strategic a target. We're safe enough—for now, anyway."_

 _I nodded. "For now, maybe. But there're no guarantees when it comes to the future."_

" _True enough," my brother conceded. "Anyway, let's can the shop talk and spend the rest of the evening unwinding with some mindless entertainment. . . What's Dad got on DVD?"_


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

We stayed up and watched all of the first three _Die Hard_ movies, which meant we got to bed at around . . . well, it was late—or very early, whichever way you want to look at it. By the time we got up, showered, shaved and dressed the next morning, it was, indeed, time for . . . brunch.

We took the Cherokee to the _Standard-Gazette_ , but this time Jack let _**me**_ drive. It was nice. Padded, leather-upholstered seats, air conditioning, tape deck _**and**_ CD player, built-in security system, power everything . . . My brother knew how to live! _**And**_ he could put it on his expense account. . .

I considered asking my _**own**_ bosses for some leeway in that department; but then I thought, _I'm supposed to be an environmentally-conscious nature lover, so I can't go around driving an environmentally-unsound vehicle._ . . Not that that beat-up, old red Jeep of mine was fuel-efficient; but, at least it had the decency to be modest in _**appearance**_ : in other words, it didn't _**look**_ like a gas guzzler. . . _Maybe_ _I really_ _ **should**_ _change jobs. I could learn to like the perks of working for Homeland Security. . .._

Darla was as busy as a bee when we walked into the wide-open expanse that was the heart of the _Standard-Gazette_. She was roaming from desk to desk, answering questions and issuing orders, while at the same time fielding calls on her cellphone from some of the more active reporters, who were out trying to get interesting stories.

As we passed the desk of one relatively young-looking reporter, he rose to his feet and snapped to attention. "Good to see you again, Admiral Beckham, sir!"

Jack smiled wanly. "I told you yesterday, Lerner: _**at ease!**_ You're not in the Navy anymore. Habits of sheer discipline are hard to break, I know. But, for both our sakes, could you at least _**try**_?"

The young former lieutenant sat back down and turned red. "I _**am**_ trying, Admiral," he said dismally. "At least I didn't salute this time."

"That's true," said Jack. "Maybe if I stop wearing my uniform when I come here, it might help."

"If only you could," I mumbled. "If only Darla didn't find you so darned attractive in that get-up . . . ." I knew Jack heard me, but he chose not to react.

"Carry on, Lerner; carry on."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir." Jack shot the young man a scolding look. Lerner went red again. Jack shook his head, smiling at him amiably, and we went on our way toward the office I remembered as having belonged to Dad, which was now occupied by Darla.

Having apparently finished her business on the floor, Darla was seated behind her desk, engaged in a phone conversation, as Jack turned the doorknob and we entered.

"I understand now why you were so disoriented when you came here yesterday," I whispered. "I find it somewhat . . . _unsettling_ , myself."

"Walking into Dad's office and finding Darla? Yeah, it was a bit . . . strange."

Darla finished her phone call and replaced the receiver on the standard black desk phone. "Hi, guys! Woo, I'm glad you're here! I had breakfast at 6:30 this morning and I am _famished_!" While she was talking, she'd made her away around the desk and sat on the corner of it in a relaxed and casual fashion. "So, where do we go?"

"IHOP?" Jack asked hopefully.

Darla smiled. "Great!" She got to her feet, grabbed her shoulder bag from the coat rack and took out her compact. Opening it, she stood directly in front of Jack and whispered as she primped, "I'd like to kiss you, Jack, but this place has too many eyes . . . _**and**_ ears. Wait till we get to the parking garage."

Jack smiled down at her. "Whatever you say, Mrs. Finley. I live but to serve."

"I love you, Jack Beckham," she said, still hiding behind her compact. I imagined it was to keep anyone who might be able to read lips from knowing what she was saying—not that it would take a genius to figure out that there was something going on between the boss lady and the publisher's famous son. I felt like the sidecar on a motorcycle. Granted, it was a somewhat _**old**_ motorcycle . . . but it still had gas, and it still ran . . .

Putting away her compact, Darla shoved us toward the door and we exited the office. Once we were out, Jack allowed the lady to go first and she led the way to the elevators. We boarded the first one that arrived—which was, fortunately, empty—and rode down to the parking garage. It was a trip of a few levels' duration, so the lovebirds decided to spend the time locking lips, with Darla initiating first contact.

When they finally came up for air, Jack was smiling. "I was kind of afraid that, after thinking things over last night—and realizing all the complications we might be up against—you'd change your mind and decide not to pursue this."

Darla shook her head and looked at my brother pointedly. "I've waited all my life for you, Jack. I'm not about to toss this relationship aside so easily."

"Glad to hear it," Jack replied. He then took Darla into his arms and kissed her again.

I rolled my eyes. "Why don't you two just get a room?"

Jack abruptly broke off kissing Darla and turned his eyes on me with a nasty glare. His hands released their hold on Darla, too, and he walked up to me, with a finger jabbing me in the chest, just as the elevator doors opened.

"You want to know why, little brother?" Jack said testily, shoving me out of the elevator. Darla was following behind him, trying to grab his arm and stop him, but he was ignoring her, unfortunately for me. "Do you really need me to _**tell**_ you why?" I stopped in my tracks, as did Jack. "Because Darla's _**not**_ that kind of a girl, that's why. She never was. Any more questions?"

"No, no. I think I get the picture." I looked past my brother and gazed contritely at the object of his affection. "Sorry, Darla. No offense intended. I'm just feeling kind of . . ."

"Left out?" she provided. I hesitantly nodded. She smiled. "Don't worry about it. When we get back, I'm going to turn you guys loose in one of the conference rooms. It'll have everything you need to help you work on deciphering the clues your uncle gave you—including some fresh pastries and a top-of-the-line coffeemaker."

She sighed and then continued, "I know I told you I'd help; but, as much as I'd like to, I can't. I've had all _**kinds**_ of problems pop up today that need my attention, so I don't really have all that much time. Even _going_ _out_ _to_ _brunch_ is cutting into some of the things I should be doing. But I _**am**_ hungry, so we're going. . ..

"Anyway, your dad designed this scenario to help _**you two**_ to bond—not Jack and me. What's happening between _**us**_ is only of secondary importance to your father. But, since we _**are**_ going—and you're feeling like a fifth wheel—let me call Jamie. I might be able to persuade her to join us . . . if you want me to."

"Do you think she'll come?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager.

Darla shrugged. "If she's hungry and she can get away . . . she just might."

While Darla got into her shoulder bag, took out her cellphone and began to call her niece, my brother continued his persecution of me—or at least, he tried to.

"Jack, give it a rest," Darla said as she waited for Jamie to answer. "It's okay, really . . . Hey, Jamie! The guys and I were just about to go to IHOP for brunch. Care to join us?"

After listening for a few seconds, Darla then said, "Yes, I know you and Mac already made plans for lunch tomorrow, but he's feeling kind of like a fifth wheel here with Jack and me. . . You will? Great! Mac will be thrilled!" She then proceeded to tell Jamie at which IHOP—out of the dozen or so that exist in the greater Denver area—we would be dining. Then, as she closed her cellphone and returned it to her purse, she said, "Jamie'll meet us there. Whoever arrives first will wait in the lobby."

Jack and I both nodded our approval of the plan.

Darla then led us to her Taurus, which she insisted on driving. _Her_ expense account was covered by the _paper_ , whereas _Jack's_ was paid for with hard-earned _taxpayers'_ dollars. "Anyway," she said, "the IHOP we're going to is new to this neck of the woods, so I doubt you know where it is."

After Darla unlocked the doors with the push of a single button, I climbed into the back seat behind her, because I still wasn't too keen on the idea of being close to my brother.

He'd seriously looked like he'd as soon have punched my lights out as talked to me. I'd as much as insulted his lady, although I hadn't meant to. It hadn't occurred to me that such a common expression would make him so hopping mad! It was then that I realized how truly and deeply in love with Darla he really was. I envied him that. And the best part of it—for him, anyway—was that Darla was genuinely worth it.

The IHOP in question was only a couple of miles from the _Standard-Gazette_ , so it didn't take us long to get there. We were, evidently, closer to it than Jamie was, so Jack and Darla sat on the bench between the entryway and the check-out counter and waited. Jack, of course, had an arm around Darla and she had a hand on his thigh.

I, meanwhile, was perusing the shelves full of toys for sale. Every IHOP I'd ever patronized had toys of some kind, and they were generally theme-based. These were smallish stuffed animals of various types, all wearing Colorado Rockies uniforms. Being a Dodgers fan myself, I didn't really have any particular interest in them . . . until Jamie walked in.

"Adorable, aren't they?" she said with a smile, as she picked up a penguin that bore some slight resemblance to Chilly Willy, the scarf-and-stocking-cap-clad comrade of Woody Woodpecker. This particular penguin, however, sported a Rockies cap and uniform. "I really love penguins," Jamie said.

"Are you a Rockies fan?" I asked, an idea coming to me slowly.

She nodded. "Yes; ever since they were first formed. I grew up here, remember. I've never had any other team."

"So, you don't like . . . football? You're not a Broncos fan?"

"Oh, yeah, I like the Broncos, too—and the Denver Nuggets. I'm a really _big_ sports fan."

Before I had a chance to ask her about hockey, Jack informed us that we were being summoned: They had a table ready for us. Without missing a beat, Jamie slid her arm through mine and we followed Jack and Darla to our table. Things were definitely looking up . . . .

 **(*)**

 _After we'd been seated (with us guys across the table from the girls) and had been given menus and glasses of water, we sipped the former and perused the latter. Even though she had claimed to be "famished," Darla ordered less food than the rest of us did—except for Jamie, of course. Darla's niece seemed to be on something of a health-food kick. She opted for a fresh fruit salad._

 _While Mac, Darla and I waited for our food to be cooked and delivered, I told Darla about Uncle George's "disappearance"; Aunt Edith's duplicity; and the conclusions Mac and I had drawn._

" _We're pretty sure he must've bugged your office before he left, D.J.," I told her. "How else could he have known that you'd spilled the beans?"_

 _She shrugged. "Maybe his buddy Raven told him."_

" _Unless the table we ate at was bugged, too, I don't see how he could have."_

" _You never know, but . . . I expect you're right." She sighed. "I'm sure he must be upset with me for not being able to go along with his plan and trying to convince you that he really had been abducted by terrorists. But, to go so far as to 'disappear' your uncle George, too, and to make your aunt Edith lie about it . . .?" She shook her head. "That's carrying things a little too far."_

 _I nodded. "We think so, too. And we fully intend to make Dad and Uncle George sweat it for a while. We're not all that worried about Aunt Edith. Let her go to Thermopolis and enjoy herself: she's just a pawn, anyway. Before we start to work on deciphering the clues, though, I'll scan the conference room for bugs, too . . . just in case."_

" _And it needs to be a room that's computer-friendly," Mac put in. "We can use my laptop to analyze the clues Uncle George gave us. If we can have access to the Internet, too, so much the better."_

 _Darla nodded. "I know just the room. It's the one I usually use when I'm having a one-on-one conference with my employees—whether it be about a story they're working on, personal problems that are getting in the way of their work . . . whatever. It has a five-foot diagonal round table in it, along with four chairs and an Internet connection."_

" _If_ _ **we're**_ _using_ _ **that**_ _room, what'll you do when you need to talk to your people?" Mac asked._

" _I'll use my office. Whoops!" She slapped her forehead. "_ **That** _wouldn't work, either, would it?" She began chewing on her thumbnail. "If your Dad_ **did** _bug my office, my interviews with my_ **employees** _wouldn't be private." She shrugged. "Oh well. There are other conference rooms I can use."_

 _Concerned, I said, "I think I'm going to scan every room in the place till I find at least two that aren't wired: one for us to use, and one for you and your employees. We'll take whichever of the two is bigger—not out of greed, but just because we'll need the extra space."_

 _Darla nodded. "Yes, I guess you will. You'll not only need Internet access, but you'll need writing materials so you can make notes on what you find out or solve, and you'll need room to spread everything out. I hadn't really thought about that when I offered you the smaller room. Sorry."_

 _I shrugged. "Hey, you can't think of everything."_

 _Our food was delivered then, and our conversation turned to other topics. Sitting next to Jamie, Mac decided to talk to her about how her work was progressing. I, on the other hand, asked Darla about her kids and grandkids. I just couldn't wrap my mind around the idea that my little D. J. was a grandmother._

" _So, how many grandkids do you have?" I asked her._

" _Six," she replied, smiling. "My oldest son has two, my oldest daughter has two, and my younger son and daughter each have one. A couple of them are expecting another baby sometime before the year is out, so the six will soon turn to eight."_

 _I could feel my eyebrows going up. "Wow," I said. "Do you think any of them'd ever consider coming here and meeting my old man? Not having any grandkids of his own, I think he'd like to meet yours."_

 _Darla chewed her lip, looking at me over the top of her glasses. "I don't know, Jack. I'm not even sure how my kids will react when I tell them about_ _ **us**_ _."_

 _I nodded my understanding and asked, "So, how and when do you plan to tell them? . . . You_ _ **do**_ _plan to tell them_ , _don't you?"_

" _Eventually, yes; but not this early in the ballgame. Anyway, I need some time to work out the 'how.'"_

" _You think they'll balk?"_

" _My_ _ **sons**_ _might. They were very close to their dad."_

" _And your daughters?"_

 _She sighed. "When each of them fell in love for the first the time and they knew they were still pretty young and that there was a possibility it might not be the only time it would happen, they came to me—each one in turn—and asked me whether I'd ever been in love before I met their father. So," she said with a shrug, "I told them about you—about us."_

" _How much did you tell them?"_

" _Everything—although I had no intention of telling them how hurt I was when you married Liz: I didn't want them to_ _ **hate**_ _you for it, especially considering the fact that you never really_ _ **understood**_ _how I felt about you. But, they asked me flat out, 'Didn't it hurt to see him marry someone else?' I admitted it did, but that you had no way of knowing you were hurting me—that, as far as_ _ **you**_ _were concerned, I was just the little girl next door. You had never thought of me as a potential girlfriend. . .._

" _I tried to make them understand that the age difference between us_ _ **mattered**_ _back then because I was so young when we first started spending time together—that I didn't blame you one bit for not falling in love with me. My daughters came to understand that. They said I was fortunate just to've had someone like you in my life—someone who cared about me the way you did. I agreed wholeheartedly." She smiled softly._

" _So, when you tell them that I_ _ **am**_ _in love with you_ _ **now**_ _and that I want to_ _ **marry**_ _you, do you think they'll be okay with it?"_

" _You want to marry me, Jack?"_

" _Well, yeah. I kinda thought that was understood."_

 _Darla shook her head. "Never take anything for granted, Jack—especially where a woman's heart is concerned. Some of the stuff we said last night was indicative that we were both on that page . . . but a girl still likes to be asked."_

" _In that case," I said, as I reached across the table—avoiding putting my sleeve into anything—and took hold of her hand, "Darla Jane McIntyre Finley, when this mess with my father and my uncle is over, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"_

 _I noticed a sudden silence from Mac and Jamie's vicinity. They had both stopped eating and were watching and listening with rapt attention—silverware poised in midair, jaws paused in mid-chew._

 _Blushing slightly, Darla nodded and said, "I can't imagine spending the rest of my life without you, Jack."_

 _I kissed her hand before releasing it. "What's your ring size?" I asked._

" _About a seven . . . I think."_

" _You want something simple—or ostentatious?"_

 _She smiled. "How about somewhere in between? –a little bit fancy, but not overly so." She was looking almost shy, and her voice was also subdued. At that moment she reminded me more than ever of the little girl I once knew._

 _I nodded. "I think I can do that." Then, smiling at her crookedly, I said, "Now, what about your daughters? Will they be okay with this?"_

" _Probably," she replied, nodding and smiling. "And if they are, I'll recruit them to help me explain it to their brothers. The boys don't know anything about my past relationship with you, and I'm not sure it would help to tell them. Men tend to be protective of the women in their lives—mothers, sisters, daughters, wives . . . and_ _ **they**_ _might blame you for hurting me, whether the_ _ **girls**_ _do or not. That's something I'd like to avoid. So, when I tell the girls what's going on between us, I'll get some feedback from them on how to broach the subject with their brothers."_

" _And what if, after you've done all you and your daughters can think of to persuade them, your sons are still vehemently opposed to the idea of you and me?"_

 _Darla sighed again, heavier this time. "I'm not going to let stubborn, pigheaded children keep us apart, Jack, even if it means that I don't see my sons or their families for a few years. They'll just have to understand that if there's a rift between us, it will be_ _ **their**_ _doing for not accepting my decision and allowing me the right to choose how and with whom I spend the remainder of my life. They can either live with the situation, try to get to know you and give you a chance, or they can keep their distance and be ornery and petulant for the duration. My sons aren't usually_ _ **that**_ _stubborn; but, in this case, they just might be."_

 _It was my turn to sigh, although mine wasn't nearly as heavy. "I hope you can find a way to convince them: I don't wanna be the cause of a rift between you and your sons. You shouldn't be deprived of the opportunity to spend time with your grandkids."_

" _I might be able to make use of their wives, too, if it comes to that," said Darla, looking pensive. "That just occurred to me. Karen and Candace both love me. I don't think they'd want their husbands cutting me off just because I choose to remarry."_

" _Would you tell_ _ **them**_ _the whole story?"_

 _Darla nodded. "Yes, I think so: they may be better able to judge than I can how much their husbands need to know. Men tend to talk to their wives and sweethearts more than they do to their mothers, so Karen and Candace probably know my sons better than I do in some ways."_

" _Good point. . . So, why don't you talk to your daughters and your daughters-in-law and leave it up to the four of them to explain it to their husbands and brothers?"_

" _I just may," she replied, nodding. "Then, if the boys want to talk to me about it afterward, I'll answer any questions they throw at me as best I can. . . And they'll probably want to meet you, too."_

" _Not a problem. If your kids decide they want a family meeting (back in whatever little town in Washington you've been living in for the past thirty years), with me as the guest of honor—or even as the roastee—I'll be there. It's the least I can do. And I'll put a ring on your finger before we go."_

" _Sounds like we've got a plan, then," said Darla with a soft smile. "Now it's just a matter of deciding when to put it into motion."_

" _How about after we find Dad and Uncle George?. . . With everything that's going on, we both have enough on our plates right now. Besides, it'll give us more time to get to know each other better; then your kids can't accuse us of rushing into things."_

" _Well, it'll still be kind of fast; but, if they understand that we've_ _ **always**_ _loved and cared about each other, maybe it won't seem so . . ._ **drastic** _to them."_

" _Won't knowing that you've never stopped loving me kind of upset your sons a little bit?"_

" _Why should it? There are umpteen_ _ **million**_ _kinds of love in the world," she exaggerated in typical Darla fashion, "—and love between people is_ _ **constantly**_ _evolving. . . It's true that I never stopped loving you; but, while I was married to Frank and raising our children, I was not_ _ **actively in love**_ _ **with**_ _you. I've_ **always** _loved you because you came to my rescue so many times when I was a kid. That's all my sons need to know—that you were my own personal hero. That might be reason enough for them to accept you. You helped save their mom from pain and humiliation. There isn't much that can top that in a son's eyes."_

" _I suppose that's true. But, you did just bring up an interesting point. You are in love with me again now, right?"_

 _She looked at me with that soft light in her eyes and nodded. "Yes, Jack, I am. I have been ever since the first time your dad and I talked in his office and I saw the photo of you—in your uniform—that was on sitting his desk. All the old feelings came flooding back. They weren't dead, Jack. They were just lying dormant, waiting for an opportunity to be reawakened. Considering our history, it didn't take much time or effort. Now that we're together again and nothing's standing in our way, I love you as totally and completely as I did when I was eighteen."_

" _I'm glad to hear it. And, as I told you last night, I wish I'd really seen you back then. I wish I'd noticed what a lovely woman you were becoming."_

" _What's past is past, Jack. We've got a bright future ahead of us. Let's just focus on that, shall we?"_

 _I smiled. "Most definitely," I agreed, rubbing my hands together. "So, now that that's settled, how about we finish breakfast and head back to the office?"_


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

Darla found us a room that was perfect for our needs; and, after Jack checked it for electronic surveillance equipment of any kind and found it clean, we set up shop.

The dictation Uncle George had given me appeared to be a numeric-coded word puzzle. He and Dad were both big fans of all kinds of word games and puzzles. I'd started trying to do them when I was about ten; Jack never had. He'd always been the jock, while I'd always been the scholar. So, it fell to me to try to solve the thing. Jack sat at my elbow, asking me how it was done.

I sighed and stared at the paper with a somewhat furrowed brow. There were several groups of numbers, each group obviously representing a word. But, since only the digits 0, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9 were used (the #1 being blatantly absent); and since there are 26 letters in the alphabet, I was a bit mystified at first. Then I remembered. . ..

Snapping my fingers, I said, "It's like a rotary telephone dial!"

"Excuse me?" Jack asked, looking mystified and somewhat incredulous.

"There are puzzles like this in some of Dad's puzzle magazines. There's always a makeshift telephone dial printed on the page to help you figure out what the words are," I explained as I drew a crude one of my own. "It's not _exactly_ like a telephone dial because Q and Z are missing from the real ones. In the puzzle books, zero represents Q or Z."

"So, two is A, B and C; three is D, E and F, and . . . so on," Jack surmised.

"Right!" I said, printing the numbers and letters in the appropriate places on my hand-drawn dial.

"So, if each number can be one of three different letters, how do you know which it is?"

"Trial and error, Jack. . . Here—give me a piece of that blank paper. . . Thanks," I said as he did so. I proceeded to write the first two numbers on the paper; then, above the numbers, I put the three letters that corresponded with each. Above the number 4, I wrote G, H and I; above the number 6 I put M, N and O. "Let's see . . . it could be GO . . . or it could be HO, but that's not very likely . . ."

"Or it could be IN," said Jack.

I nodded. "Yeah, it could."

"So, we've got either 'in' or 'go'," said Jack. "How do we figure out which one it is?"

"By working on the _**second**_ word. It shouldn't be too hard: it's another two-letter word."

"Number eight and then six again," Jack pointed out.

I wrote 8 and 6 on the paper and put T, U and V over the eight and M, N and O over the six again.

"TO," Jack and I said together.

I smiled. "You're getting the hang of it, bro."

"Yeah. Looks to me like it should be 'go to.' I mean, if it was 'in to' it would be one word, wouldn't it?"

I nodded. "Probably. So, Dad's telling us where we need to go."

"I'd like to tell _**him**_ where to go . . ."

"Jack, let's not get distracted."

"Okay, okay. So, where do we go _**to**_?"

I gritted my teeth. "This next word is kind of a long one, but it has an apostrophe near the beginning and another one near the end, so there's a good chance the first letter is an O—"

"You're thinking it's an Irish name of some kind?"

I nodded. "Exactly. If the number were three, I'd think it was something French or Italian, with a D in front; but, since it's 6, it's very probably an O."

"And the last letter is probably S. Does that match the given number?" Jack asked

"Seven? Yeah, I think it does."

"So, what kind of a place name do we know that's long and very probably Irish?"

"Well," I said with a sigh as I put the remaining numbers on the paper, "let's have a look and see what we can come up with."

After several minutes of work, we discovered that the name in question was "O'Shaugnessey's." It took us only a split second to look at each other and say in unison, "O'Shaugnessey's Outpost", which was a place we had frequented with Dad whenever we went up to the cabin, or camped out during hunting season. It had been a while since either of us had been there.

"O-kay," said Jack slowly. "So, we go to O'Shaugnessey's. Then what?"

I shrugged. "Let's find out."

It took about two hours—plus half a dozen donuts and five cups of coffee between us—before we worked out the entire puzzle. It read, "Go to O'Shaugnessey's Outpost. From there, head approximately three miles due south to Bear Log Hollow. Reach into the cavity in the bole of the tree closest to the log. Remove the plastic bag."

When I expressed confusion, Jack explained to me about Bear Log Hollow:

"Dad and I went camping there once when I was a freshman in high school. Mom was pregnant with you at the time and wasn't feeling well. She wanted us out of her hair for a while. . ..

"Anyway, there we were, sitting on a couple boulders—roasting wienies and marshmallows over a campfire—when this big, old black bear came lumbering into sight, roaring at us. We dropped everything, high-tailed it back to the Land Rover and waited while the bear trashed our camp—including the tent. After he'd eaten all our food, he started playing with this hollow log that was lying on the ground about twenty feet or so from where we'd been sitting on the boulders. It'd still been light when we got there, so we'd noticed a few bees coming and going from the log for a while until they'd settled down for the night. But, Dad figured if we left _**them**_ alone, they'd leave _**us**_ alone, and they did. The bear, however, wasn't that smart. He smelled honey, and he wasn't going to let a few sleeping bees stop him from getting it. He got his honey all right, but he also got stung all over his face for his trouble. He dropped the log and ran off. Dad and I stayed in the Land Rover till the bees settled back down. It was night by then and they were tired, so it didn't take them long to go back to sleep, once they realized the bear was gone.

"After that, we got out some more food and finished having dinner. Under the circumstances, we decided to spend the night in the Land Rover instead of the tent, especially since the bear had thoroughly trashed it. From that day on, we called the place 'Bear Log Hollow'. It just seemed to . . . fit."

"Yeah, I guess it does. . . So, when do you wanna go to O'Shaugnessey's?"

"How about tomorrow morning? It'll take us some time to drive up there, and then we'll leave the Jeep and hike our way to Bear Log Hollow. (We could drive on into the camp area, but just in case Dad's keeping an eye out for us on the road, I prefer to go in covertly.) Is the Boy Scout compass still tucked away in your room somewhere?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I think so. Unless Dad took it, it should be."

"Why don't you look for it after you have dinner tonight? . . . Speaking of which, you're going to have to fend for yourself: I've got a date with Darla. She's making dinner for me."

"Of course she is." I sighed. "I guess I can call Pizza Hut or something."

"Make it a large and we'll have the leftovers for lunch tomorrow."

"Half cheese and peppers and half meat lovers?"

"Are you still a vegetarian?"

"You make it sound like it's a crime!"

"It is! Man, think of all the great _**tastes**_ and _**textures**_ you're missing out on!"

"Think of all the calories and cholesterol I'm saving myself from. . .."

"You worry too much."

"You don't worry enough."

"We are _soooo_ different."

"You can say that again."

"Why did Dad ever think this would work?"

"Jack, it _**is**_ working. He didn't expect us to change who we are, or for one of us to turn into a carbon copy of the other. He just wanted us to learn to work together and to get along, that's all. We don't have to have similar likes and dislikes to be able to coexist and cooperate."

"I guess that's true. . . So, half cheese and peppers, and half meat lovers. Works for me."

"And if Darla has any leftovers from dinner . . ."

Jack smiled. "I'll bring you a doggie bag."

"Woof."

"What say we call it quits for today and go to Manny's Pub for a beer? Darla's not expecting me until seven . . ."

I shrugged. "Why not? But we're only having _**one**_ _._ You need to stay sober if you're going to drive home afterward—and all the way out to Mile High Village later—not to mention home again after dinner. . . Uh, you _**do**_ plan to come home after dinner, don't you?"

Jack looked daggers at me. "Yeah, Mac, I'm coming home. I told you before . . ."

I nodded. "Yes, I know: Darla's not that kind of girl. But Jack, what if she _**wants**_ to be?"

"I won't let her. I can't."

"Because it's Darla."

"Yeah. Because it's Darla."

'Nough said. Jack got his keys and we headed for Manny's.


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

 _After a beer each, Mac and I decided it was time to do a little clothes shopping. Mac_ _ **definitely**_ _needed something dressier than jeans and T-shirts if he was going to continue going out with Jamie, and he didn't want to keep borrowing my brown slacks and tweed jacket._ _ **I**_ _wanted jeans and a T-shirt or two myself. I also thought it a good idea to supplement my own "going out on the town" wardrobe. We both found what we needed at a men's store in the Cinderella Mall (which still existed back then). I bought a pair of khaki denim cargos with about ten pockets; and four or five tees of various colors and designs. In deference to Darla, I didn't buy any with crude sayings on them, although Mac picked one out that he thought I should get for myself. It was John-Deere green, with yellow block letters that said, "_ _I have no idea, and I don't want one._ _" I nixed it and glared at my brother nastily._

 _The raciest one I got—and, as it turned out, the only one with any kind of a statement on it—said simply, "Flyboys are always on top . . .", with a photo of a jet plane on the front, and ". . . of the world!" with a picture of Earth as it looks from space on the back. And I couldn't even bear the thought of wearing_ _ **that**_ _one in front of Darla . . . at least, not until after we were married. . .._

 _Between us, Mac and I picked up a few pair of semi-dressy slacks in white, tan, teal and powder blue; and some short-sleeved, button-up shirts—also in white and various shades of beige and blue—to go with them. We both felt pretty good as we left the mall and headed home._

 _I immediately changed into white slacks, the teal shirt, a woven white belt made of something resembling hemp, and white canvas deck shoes. I looked pretty cool—literally._

 _Mac was still looking for the Boy Scout compass when I left for Mile High Village. He'd already ordered the pizza, and I passed the delivery boy as I turned the corner off our street._

 _Darla had the porch light on for me; and some quiet, romantic-sounding music was playing in the background as I entered her condo. Aside from the music, I noticed a few other little things._

 _Like me, Darla was dressed in white slacks—although her shirt was a pink tee with silver stars of various types decorating the front of it. She also wore a silver-colored chain belt and had glittery silver sandals on her feet. There were some long, thin, lighted candles—"tapers," I believe they're called—on the table; and the food smelled delicious._

 _In the time it took me to absorb all this, Darla had taken me by the hand, pulled me into her living room and wrapped her arms around my neck. She then kissed my chin, smiled at me in that beguiling way she has, and then said, "Welcome to my humble abode. I hope you enjoy your meal this evening."_

 _I smiled back at her and kissed her on the tip of her nose. "I'm sure I will. But, even if you were the worst cook on the planet, I'd eat it anyway—just because_ _ **you**_ _made it."_

 _She smiled even more. "I promise you, Jack, I am_ _ **not**_ _the worst cook on the planet. I'm not the_ _ **best**_ _either, but my food is palatable. Being as finicky as I am, I'm not exactly a gourmet. I make simple fair. TV chefs would roll their eyes and shake their heads at me. But, at least my family never starved—and neither will you. What I lack in variety, I make up for in quantity."_

" _Then let's get to it, shall we? I'm starving. But first . . . ." Lowering my head, I placed my lips on hers and kissed her warmly. They still tasted really good. If my stomach hadn't chosen that moment to rumble, I probably would've prolonged the kiss or given her a few more. But I really was hungry. I withdrew my lips and flinched a little. "Sorry about that."_

 _Darla smiled. "It's okay, Jack. I'm glad you're hungry. Maybe you'll enjoy it more."_

 _She wrapped her arm through mine and walked me a few feet to what passed for her dining room. It wasn't even a room, really. Outside of the presence of the table and chairs, you could tell it was supposed to be the dining area only because it was right next to the kitchen, and the floor was covered with linoleum instead of carpeting. The ground floor of the condo was incredibly small. If we stayed here in Denver after we were married, I was going to get this lady a house—and a nice one, too._

 _The table was well set, as tables go; and the food looked good. I mused that if it tasted even half as good as it looked, it would be enough._

 _I waited by her chair while Darla went into the kitchen and came out with a small, black plastic bowl of green salad. I wondered about this, since, as was previously mentioned, Darla didn't like or eat salads herself. "I bought it freshly made," she told me, smiling as she set the plastic bowl down in the middle of my plate. "I put it in the fridge with the plastic wrap still on it to keep it fresh. I hope it's to your liking. . . Oh, and here's a packet of your favorite dressing, as well." She placed the packet next to the bowl, also on the plate. She then approached me, and I pulled her chair out for her, as my father had taught me to do for a lady a very long time ago._

" _And what are_ _ **you**_ _gonna eat while I'm munching on this salad?" I asked, pushing in her chair._

 _She held up a glass container—made for either a parfait or a sundae, I'm not sure which (maybe they're both the same kind, I don't know)—and showed me a mess of red Jell-o squares. "My favorite type of 'salad,'" she said._

 _I smiled down at her. "There isn't even any_ _ **fruit**_ _in it," I pointed out. "Isn't Jell-o salad supposed to have fruit in it?"_

" _Because of the sugar in the juice, it takes longer to set up if you put fruit in it," she informed me as I went to take my own seat at the table. "I do like to eat lime Jell-o with fruit cocktail_ _ **in**_ _it and miniature marshmallows_ _ **on**_ _it, though—when I can get it. It's way too time-consuming for me to want to make it myself. When it comes to food, I like to keep things simple—in preparing as well as in eating."_

" _So, just plain Jell-o, then," I commented, as I put a forkful of greens into my mouth._

" _Yep."_

 _Darla dug her spoon into her Jell-o with relish and I enjoyed my salad equally as much. She may not like to_ _ **eat**_ _salad, but she knew a good one when she_ _ **saw**_ _it; and she obviously knew what_ _ **I**_ _liked._

 _Once we were both finished with our respective salads—and I use the term loosely where Darla's is concerned—she took my bowl and her parfait glass away and we started dishing out the food that was placed in strategic places around the table._

 _I'd gotten through my salad pretty quickly, so the rest of the meal hadn't had time to cool down too awfully much and was still sufficiently warm to be satisfying to the palate._

 _The steak was grilled to perfection; my twice-baked potato was topped with everything I like on it, while Darla used only butter and paprika on hers; the cauliflower in cheese sauce was about the best I'd ever tasted; and the carrots were sweet and buttery, with just the right amount of seasoning._

 _All in all, it was a pretty darned good meal; and I enjoyed it as much as I was able, while Darla talked about her children._

 _She said she'd called her daughters and daughters-in-law after she got home from work and told them all about us. Three out of the four of them had squealed with delight. The fourth—Karen, who was married to her oldest son—had been less expressive about it. "But none of them are against it," she said. "Karen's just older and more mature, so she reacted less emotionally than the others. My daughters especially are glad that you and I are together again. They think it's_ _ **terribly**_ _romantic. . . All four of them promised to explain the situation as diplomatically and in as positive a light as possible to my sons. We should know in a few days what the verdict is." I was, at that moment, wiping my mouth with my napkin. While she was talking, I'd finished eating._

 _Darla paused to eat a forkful of potato and then asked, "How was it?" When I looked puzzled, she clarified, "The food. How was it?"_

" _It was positively delicious," I said, as I put my napkin on top of the used silverware on my plate._

" _I'm glad you liked it," she replied with a soft smile, just before she slid another forkful of potato into her mouth. "Since you're finished and I still have some spuds left to eat, why don't you wander over to the stereo and see if you can find something we could dance to."_

" _Dance? As in . . . ballroom . . . type . . . stuff? Waltz, two-step . . . that sort of thing?"_

" _Yes, Jack. And don't tell me you don't know how. I know for a fact that you do."_

" _Yeah, but . . . it's not that easy on carpeting."_

" _Hey, we don't have to do any fancy maneuvers: there isn't room in this tiny place, anyway. As far as I'm concerned, all we really have to do is hold each other the way you're supposed to when ballroom dancing and move around in circles to the music."_

 _I had a mental image of me holding Darla's right hand against my chest with my left, my right arm wrapped firmly around her waist; while her left hand rested on my shoulder or tickled the back of my neck. Then I saw the two of us moving slowly around in a circle to the rhythm of the music while gazing into each other's eyes—meaningfully. . . I got up and went to the stereo._

 _As I perused Darla's music collection, I found a CD labeled "Mom's Love Songs Mix #2". I took it—still in its jewel case—to Darla and asked her about it._

" _We had a CD burner on one of our computers back home," she told me. "My oldest son burned this for me. The disc that's already in the stereo is my 'Love Songs Mix #1.' So, unless you don't have a romantic bone in your body, you'll probably like them both. Sit and have a listen."_

 _I listened to samples from each disc while Darla continued eating and then cleared off the table once she was done._

 _I was familiar with the majority of the songs on both discs, but there were a few I hadn't heard before. I had a notion they were songs that her kids had listened to a great deal when they were in high school and/or college and she had developed a liking for them._

 _After checking out both disks, I decided I liked Mix #1 better. Darla had undoubtedly put her favorite love songs on the first disc and her lesser favorites on the second. By the time I'd made my decision, Darla was finished in the kitchen and the dishwasher was churning cheerfully in the background._

" _So, you like Mix #1 better, eh?" Darla asked as she approached me._

" _Yeah. I know more of the songs on it."_

 _She nodded. "Me too; but, the songs I don't know quite as well are still lovely, romantic ballads and worth listening to when I'm in a_ _ **really**_ . . . _romantic . . . mood." She'd moved in closer as she said those last three words, and I could feel my heart beginning to race. The song currently playing on the stereo was "Never My Love" by The Association. I thought it very appropriate, under the circumstances._

" _You ready?" I asked, gazing into her eyes._

" _I've been ready for thirty-five years, Jack," she told me, as she placed one hand on my chest and the other on my shoulder. I took her hand, clutched it tightly in my own, and wrapped my other arm around her waist—just as I'd imagined it—as we moved slowly and deliberately around in circles to the rhythm of the music._

 _For what seemed an eternity, neither of us said a word. We just held each other and listened to the lyrics of each song, determining within our own minds whether the song was relevant to our situation —to our relationship—past, present or future. Amazingly enough, the majority of them were. The more I listened, the more my feelings for Darla grew. Or maybe it was just that my_ _ **awareness**_ _of my feelings for her grew. . . Either way, by the time we'd heard about a third of the CD, I couldn't take anymore. I let go of Darla's hand and wrapped both arms around her waist (while both of hers went around my neck), and I kissed her fervently. Before I knew it, we'd become lost in a torrent of passion, and I didn't come to my senses until I heard Darla moan and felt her going limp in my arms. If this kept up, I'd make a liar out of myself._

 _I pulled Darla to me, holding her head against my chest with one hand and keeping my other arm securely around her back. I kissed the top of her head. Then I said, "I think it's time I thought about going home."_

 _Darla smiled softly up at me and asked, "Still trying to protect me, Jack?—even from yourself?"_

" _Yeah, Darla, I am." I nodded again. "I am."_

 _Darla gazed at me with even more love in her eyes then—at least, it looked like it to me. "Thank you, Jack," she said, smiling softly, "'cause even the girl next door is only human."_

 _I nodded one last time, kissed her forehead, released her and backed away. "Dinner was fantastic, and so was the company." I felt the corner of my mouth twist upward just a fraction and said, "I love you, Darla Jane McIntyre Finley . . . more than I can say. Next time I see you, I'll try to restrain myself a little more; but, once Dad's back home, safe and sound, you and I have a date with a preacher."_


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Jack forgot the doggie bag—or maybe Darla had just made enough for two. Knowing my brother's appetite, he probably ate enough for both of us, darn him. Anyway, when he got home, I showed him the compass. (I'd found it in an old shoe box in what used to be my/his bedroom closet.)

"Good," he said distractedly, as he plopped down on the edge of the sofa with his arms across his thighs and his hands hanging down between his legs.

"Jack . . . did . . . something . . . _happen_ tonight?" I asked cautiously from where I sat in the overstuffed armchair.

"I love her, Mac," he said, looking at me earnestly.

"I _know_ that, Jack. That's been obvious for the past two days."

"No," he said intently, shaking his head. "I mean, I've _always_ loved her." He had a look in his eyes unlike anything I'd ever seen before. "I just didn't realize it till tonight." He paused and then went on, "We were dancing—sort of—moving around in circles to this love songs mix her son made for her . . . and I felt like . . ."

He paused again, contemplating his feelings; then he shook his head. "Even though I really don't deserve her, I can't live another day without her, Mac. I just can't."

"You should've married her thirty-five years ago."

"Yeah, I should have. But, since I didn't, as soon as I can after we find Dad, I'm gonna put a ring on her finger and rectify that situation."

"Since you proposed to her over brunch at IHOP, I should hope so!"

"So . . . now that we've covered the subject of my feelings for and my intentions toward Darla, listen up and I'll tell you what I have planned for tomorrow."

"You have a plan? I thought we were just gonna head up to Bear Log Hollow and retrieve the packet of clues from the tree."

"Not exactly," Jack replied cryptically, a mischievous smile on his face.

Suddenly, I suspected that tomorrow was going to be a lot more fun than I'd anticipated.

 **(*)**

 _It had occurred to me—the more I'd thought about it—that hiding the so-called "evidence" in the bole of a tree would've been a really stupid thing to do. What if someone decided to set up camp in that clearing, as Dad and I had done all those years ago; and what if they went exploring and came across the packet? No, Dad wasn't that foolish. I pointed that fact out to Mac and he reluctantly agreed with me._

" _So, why did he tell us to go there, then?" he asked me._

" _Because that's where he and Uncle George are, that's why."_

" _What?! Are you sure about this, Jack?_ _ **Darla**_ _seems to think the packet exists and that it contains more clues to their whereabouts."_

" _(Only because that's what Dad_ _ **led**_ _her to believe.) I'm as sure as I can be about it without actually going up there to have a look. In the meantime, I'm calling Homeland and requesting a chopper to be sent up there tonight to have a look around the area—with active infrared. . . You see, Mac, I've got a sneaking suspicion that they're gonna find two—and_ _ **only**_ _two—very warm bodies camped out up there in the clearing."_

" _So, what're we gonna do, then?"_

 _I smiled wickedly._

" _Oh, boy!" said Mac. "I'm almost beginning to feel sorry for Dad and Uncle George—_ _ **almost**_ _."_

" _They've led us on a merry chase, and now we're going to catch them," I told my brother._

" _How? Wha'd'ya mean? They obviously_ _ **want**_ _us to come up there and find them."_

" _Of course they do! That's the whole point! They want us to go up there and approach the tree, believing that we'll find a packet of some kind containing the so-called 'evidence,' and when we do, they probably intend to jump out and say, 'Hello, boys! What took you so long?' Then they think they'll have a jolly laugh, ask us to join them around the fire for some coffee, and we'll all talk about how clever they were to concoct this plan, and how easily duped we were."_

" _We weren't all_ _ **that**_ _easily duped and they_ _ **know**_ _it, or they wouldn't've put Aunt Edith up to lying for them," Mac pointed out._

" _I was just giving an example of how it_ _ **could**_ _go down. It wasn't an exact representation of what they'll actually say! I'm not a mind reader or a fortune teller. I'm just . . . imagining."_

" _Oh, yeah. Right."_

 _For once, I was being the smarter brother. It felt kind of nice._

" _So, wha'd'ya think, Mac? Should we have the park rangers show up, accusing them of poaching?—or maybe military or Homeland Security forces, looking for the terrorists who supposedly captured them? What suits your fancy?"_

" _Aren't all of those choices a bit extreme under the circumstances? And do you really think you could get any of those groups to actually cooperate in something like that?—especially if the chopper only finds '_ _ **two**_ _warm bodies' up there, like you said._ _ **Two**_ _people aren't much of a problem—to anyone but the park rangers, anyway. And, calling the park rangers to have them rounded up for something as mundane as poaching just wouldn't be that much fun."_

" _That's true. I hadn't really considered that." I chewed my lower lip and cogitated. I felt my brow furrow._

 _Mac snapped his fingers. "I have an idea!"_

" _Let's hear it."_

" _We could call every hunting, fishing and camping buddy Dad and Uncle George have and tell 'em we're throwing them a huge surprise party up there (since we're so seldom in town these days); and we could ask them all to go on up and join the fun."_

 _I felt myself starting to smile. "So there won't_ _ **be**_ _only two people." I nodded. "I like it. Only trouble is, it'll take time to get them all up there, and it's already the middle of the week. We'll have to plan it for Friday night, so all the guys'll have time to buy supplies, get packed, and head up there. Even though they're all at least sixty-five, some of them may have part-time jobs."_

" _You're right—they might. Planning it for Friday is fine with me. We can set everything up tomorrow. Just remember that I'm supposed to have lunch with Jamie tomorrow, too."_

" _Oh, yeah. I'd forgotten about that. Hey, have fun."_

" _Thanks, I will. But, in the meantime, I just thought of one other little problem with my plan."_

" _Which is?"_

" _Calling out the military (or Homeland Security, for that matter), only to have them find a bunch of old geezers—who would undoubtedly spill the beans about_ _ **us**_ _being the ones who invited them up there in the first place—could get us into a lot of hot water."_

" _Yes, it could," I admitted. "Any ideas on how to get around the 'spill the beans' part?"_

 _Mac shrugged. "I guess we could invite them up there using Dad's and Uncle George's names instead of our own. . . If we use Dad's computer to send out emails, and have each guy we send an email to contact_ _ **someone**_ _ **else**_ _whose email address Dad doesn't have on his list—"_

"— _or who maybe doesn't have a computer . . ." I put in._

"— _but who_ _ **is**_ _in Dad's Rolodex . . ."_

"— _we could get more people up there," I concluded_

" _But won't they be suspicious if they're asked to call someone else that they have every reason to believe Dad could contact himself?"_

 _Every time we thought we had a good plan, Mac had to come up with another wrinkle! Man, there was a lot of work involved in being sneaky!_

" _Okay, how about this," I proposed. "We have him say something like, 'Could you contact So-and-so for me? I've got my laptop up here with me, but I didn't bring my Rolodex, so I don't have his number to call him.'"_

" _How's Dad gonna email_ _ **anybody**_ _on a_ _**laptop**_ _in the middle of the_ _**woods**_ _?" Mac asked me—sensibly, I might add._

" _Okay, okay. . . Let me think." I started pacing. A HUGE light bulb went on over my head. I snapped my fingers as I stopped in my tracks. "Got it!"_

" _What?"_

" _We send them all telegrams." As my brother started to protest, I said, "Yeah, yeah, I know: It'll cost a bundle. But, boy, it'll be worth it!"_

" _And what are we going to say in these telegrams?"_

"' _Come to campground, Pike National Forest, Friday, 1900 hours. Bring full gear. Map posted at O'Shaughnessy's Outpost.' Of course, we can shorten it to save money, cut out the prepositions, abbreviate Friday, National, hours, and O'Shaughnessy—stuff like that."_

" _They might wanna know_ _ **why**_ _they're being invited up there . . ." Mac pointed out._

" _Okay. So we add, 'Good time to be had by all.'" I looked at my brother, arching my eyebrows expectantly._

 _He nodded. "Sounds good. The only loophole on this one—aside from the cost—is that people at the outpost are bound to recognize whichever one of us goes up there to post the map."_

" _I have a friend who might be willing to post the map for us."_

" _For a fee?"_

" _Of course."_

" _And what if someone makes him a better offer to spill the beans?"_

 _I smiled. "I'm talking about O'Shaughnessy himself, little bro. When I tell Shaun what's been going on with Dad and Uncle George, he'll be_ _ **glad**_ _to help us get revenge."_

" _Then why charge a fee? It's not as if he needs the money . . ."_

 _I shrugged. "It's company policy—handed down since his grandfather's time: they've_ _ **always**_ _charged a fee to post bills on their walls."_

" _You think you can trust him?"_

" _If the Feds come around asking questions, he'll describe someone who doesn't exist—a perfect description, right down to the squiggly hair jutting out of his left eyebrow. . . And I'll make certain he understands that the man is supposed to be in league with terrorists. I'm pretty sure he can pull it off."_

" _Still, someone might see you and recognize you when you take him the map."_

" _Are you nuts? Do you think I'd take the map to the Outpost, when the whole purpose in getting Shaun to do it is to keep anyone from seeing me? Get real!_ _ **I**_ _know where he_ _ **lives**_ _!"_

" _So, does he have a cabin up there, or something?"_

 _I shook my head. "Nah, he lives in Aurora—got a nice, well-insulated, solar-powered log home. Cool place. He's usually there after ten at night, or before six in the a.m."_

" _Okay," said Mac. "Well then, I guess we'll have to find a large-scale map of Pike and do a little 'X marks the spot' thing on it. Other than that, there's still the matter of preventing the attacking_ _Federales_ _—whatever group we decide to pick on—from suspecting that it's a set up when they get there and find nothing but a bunch of old geezers on a camping trip."_

" _In other words," I said, "we've gotta convince them that whoever made the anonymous tip had good reason to believe there was something really underhanded going on up there."_

" _Precisely. But how do we go about it? I'm still trying to figure that one out."_

" _While the two Great White Hunters are away from camp, a certain covert operative is gonna plant the up-till-now non-existent evidence in the bole of a specific tree."_

" _And what are we going to use for said evidence?"_

" _Doctored photos and forged documents; what else?"_

" _Can you handle it by yourself?"_

" _Probably not. I'm not as computer savvy as you are. If you'll help me with the pictures and the documents, I'll make the drive up there and place the packet in the tree. We'll have to be careful and handle everything with gloves on, of course."_

" _So, then, shall we get up bright and early; write and send off the telegrams; and get on Dad's computer to find a map and put together some incriminating evidence before I go to lunch with Jamie?"_

" _We'd better. Tomorrow's Thursday, and we only have tomorrow to get it done if we're gonna get all the guys up there by Friday evening."_

" _Good point. I'll try to keep my lunch with Jamie short, then."_

" _Don't worry about it. If you get me started in the morning—show me the ropes—I think I can probably carry on while you're gone. Just don't be longer than a couple of hours."_

" _I doubt I'll be gone much more than half that—even with travel time. Jamie's using her lunch break from work to go with me. She may not wanna take more than half an hour."_

" _Knowing Jamie, you're probably right. So,_ _ **I'll**_ _just have lunch, too, while you're gone; and we'll continue working when you get back."_

" _Any idea when the telegraph office opens?"_

" _Nada. We'll just have to call and find out." After a ten-second-or-so pause, I asked, "Say, can you send telegrams over the telephone?" I was still concerned about being recognized if I went to Western Union in person._

" _I think so. If you've got a credit card to pay for it with, you can order just about anything over the phone."_

" _If not . . ."_

 _Mac shrugged. "We can always try a disguise."_

" _I guess. In the meantime, why don't we get into Dad's Rolodex and start looking up names and addresses of likely guests to be invited to this unique party we're throwing?"_

" _Why not? It's something to do."_

" _How many do you think we oughta invite?" I asked._

" _Oh, I don't know. Maybe somewhere between twelve and twenty . . ."_


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

After breakfast next morning, Jack and I couldn't quite nail down a number when it came to how many of the "old geezers" we should ask to our little confab in the woods. Jack said, "I'll just take a coin out of my pocket at random and we'll use the date stamped on it to determine how many we invite."

"What? –like, one thousand nine hundred and seventy-nine?" I asked incredulously.

Jack shook his head. "No. If it's a twentieth-century coin, we use the 'one' and whatever the _last_ digit is, zero through nine; that way, we'll end up with anywhere from ten to nineteen guests. But, if it's a twenty- _first_ century coin, we just invite twenty people—no more, no less."

I nodded. "Sounds good. Let's see what Fate gives us . . ."

Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. It happened to be one of the more recent—and highly collectible— _state_ quarters. "Twenty," Jack said simply. Then he sighed. "I was kind of hoping for a 1984, or something."

"Hey, it was your idea. . . We can always scrap it and do fourteen, if that's what you want."

"No, no. As you said, it was my idea, so I'm gonna stick to it."

"Okay. So, do you wanna write the telegram? –or search the Rolodex?"

"I'm probably better acquainted with Dad's oldest and closest friends than you are, so I think _**I**_ oughta search the Rolodex while _**you**_ compose the telegram."

"OK; you got it. BTW, I think Dad has one of those electronic speech programs on his computer. We might be able to find a way to use it when we call Western Union, so the voice of whichever one of us makes the call will never be recognized."

"Why would Dad have something like that on his computer in the first place?"

I shrugged. "To make anonymous calls to dangerous people, maybe? I don't know. He likes to take risks, but he's not crazy."

Jack nodded. "Makes sense. Dad's always liked going after the sensational stories. If he has to make a few insinuations and push some dangerous buttons, he's not afraid to do it."

"Exactly. So, let's get busy then, shall we?"

It only took us about an hour to get everything done. Jack had picked out twenty good names—the majority of which even _I_ recognized—and I had a telegram composed that wouldn't set us back _too_ terribly much, financially speaking. I decided to have it signed "P & G B", for Peter and George Beckham. Jack approved.

When I'd finished with the telegram and Jack had a list of names and addresses, he vacated Dad's desk chair and invited me to sit down and try out the speech program. I put on the headset and activated the program. It worked great. I could say whatever I wanted and it came out sounding like a _real person_ , but not like _me_. I was able to adjust the timbre of the voice as high or as low as I wanted it. I chose to go just a little bit deeper than my natural voice. If I'd gone _**too**_ deep it wouldn't've sounded quite as natural, and I really didn't _want_ to go _**higher**_.

Jack nodded as he listened to me practice reading the telegram into the headset. "Sounds good," he told me. "So, can you talk into that headset and into the phone at the same time?"

"I'm gonna put the phone on speaker. My voice will still sound deeper, but the mike won't be in the way. . . We'll need to be completely still while I'm on the phone, though, so there won't be any background noise to interfere with my conversation. . . That's the only problem with putting it on speaker: it's so sensitive, it picks up everything that's going on in the room."

"Tell you what: I'll leave the room; that way you can make your call in peace."

As he started to leave, I said, "Um, Jack, what're we gonna charge this to?"

"Well," he said, looking thoughtful, "since we're doing twenty, and since we're supposed to be rescuing our father from terrorists, why don't we charge ten to my Homeland Security account and ten to your NSA account? Tell the Western Union people that _Peter_ is paying for half on _his_ card, and _George_ is paying for half on _his_ card."

"So, which of our cards is Dad's and which one is Uncle George's?"

"Mac, _it doesn't matter_! It's just our alibi."

"Oh, yeah, right." I couldn't believe how much cleverer _Jack_ was being at this time than _I_ was. I wondered if it was a fluke. But then, I hadn't been around my brother all that much, so I had no idea just how intelligent he really was. Yes, he'd been a jock; but, that hadn't kept him from making the grade at the Academy. I finally realized I'd been underestimating my brother's intelligence for years, just because he chose not to be overly techno-savvy.

"When our respective accountants get the bill," I asked him, "what shall we tell them the charges to Western Union were for?"

"You tell them you were following leads on suspected terrorists. Nothing came of any of them, but you did your best to track down what you were given."

"Jack, I think I've seriously underestimated your intelligence and your cleverness."

"The cleverness developed over _years_ of dealing with military brass and bureaucratic red tape," he replied. "You learn to be creative if you don't wanna end up in trouble every time you turn around."

I nodded. "True enough. I've had some experience in that area, too; but, most of _my_ creativity has been aimed at the _terrorists_ I've had to deal with while undercover."

"And that's a whole 'nother kind of trouble," said Jack.

"Yes, it is. . . Now, if you'll hand over your Homeland charge card and leave the room, I'll make the phone call."

It was still early when I hung up the phone: not even 10:30 yet. I called Jack back into the room. "So, do you want me to show you how to create documents and doctor photographs?" I asked him.

"Yeah. Just show me the ropes; then you can go ahead and leave. It'll take some time for you to get across town to the café near where Jamie works—especially with the lunch-hour traffic."

"You're probably right."

So, Jack stood looking over my shoulder, watching as I showed him how to use the cut-and-paste method to alter photos or documents. When I finished my demonstration, he was smiling. "This is gonna be fun!" he said.

I shrugged. "If you say so." I then got to my feet and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck, Jack. I'll probably see you in a couple of hours. If you have any trouble, wait till I get back and I'll give you a hand."

" _If_ I have any problems," he said with uncharacteristic confidence. Maybe, having a desk job for the last few years, he'd learned a few things. He was certainly more computer savvy than he'd ever been before.

"See you later, bro," I said, waving as I left the room.

"Yeah. Later." Jack was already engrossed in his new pet project. I just hoped he didn't do any serious damage to Dad's computer . . .

 **(*)**

I had a good long talk with Jamie over lunch, in spite of the fact that she did, indeed, want to get back to work as soon as possible. It turned out we really liked each other—a lot. And there was a certain amount of mutual respect in there, too—which is important in any relationship. I finally decided to flat-out ask her if she'd continue seeing me if I moved home to Denver.

"Sure," she replied. "I think I'd like that. But . . . won't your environmentalist friends back in California miss you?" There was a teasing lilt in her voice and the trace of a smile on her lips.

"Oh, I think they'll be able to manage without me."

As much as I wanted to, I couldn't tell Jamie what I _really_ did for a living—not yet, anyway. If I was lucky, I'd _never_ have to tell her. I didn't want to put her in danger, if I could help it. . . Someday—if and when the terrorists _I'd_ been tracking were finally brought to justice—I could tell Jamie my story— _all_ of it. I sincerely hoped so. I don't enjoy keeping secrets from people I care about—including all my so-called "tree-hugging" friends.

"So, what will you do when you move here?" Jamie asked me. "There are environmental groups here, too, of course. But they're not _nearly_ as active as the ones on the West Coast. . . At least, you don't _hear_ as much from or about them . . . ."

"Jack has suggested I get a job with Homeland Security . . . says he'd put in a good word for me."

Jamie looked puzzled. "Do you have the background to work for Homeland Security?"

I nodded. "I used to be a cop—worked undercover in a high-stakes bunko squad."

"Is that how you got into the tree-hugging business?"

"Sort of. It's kind of complicated."

A crooked smile appeared at the corner of her luscious mouth. "You're not really an environmental activist, are you?" she asked pointblank, but in a barely audible whisper. "You're _still_ working undercover—trying to figure out which of all those groups are legitimate and which ones are out to bilk good but naïve people out of their life savings."

I decided to come clean—at least partly. I whispered, too. "That's how it started, yeah. But it's a lot more complicated than that now. I was recruited by a government agency, although I can't tell you which one. National security and all that crap. . . You know how it is."

She nodded slowly and the smile was gone from her face. "Does it have to do with terrorists? . . . I read somewhere that some people in the government suspect that terrorists are gathering and laundering money through charitable organizations and environmental groups. Is that what you do? –you pretend to be one of them so you can find out if there're terrorists behind the scenes somewhere?"

I must've turned pale, 'cause she reached across the table, took my hand, and said, "I'm not going to tell anyone, Mac, I promise! I work for the government, too, you know. And I have a pretty high security clearance."

I smiled stiffly, exhaled breath I didn't even know I'd been holding. "You're too smart for your own good, Jamie. If I didn't know your family as well as I do—if we'd just met—I'd be suspicious of your directness and have you checked out. I'd _have_ to. I couldn't take the chance that you might be an undercover operative yourself—an _enemy_ undercover operative."

She let go of my hand and retracted her own. "Then I guess it's a good thing I'm Darla's niece, huh?" She returned to eating and broke eye contact.

"I didn't mean to upset you by that remark, Jamie. I was just telling you the way it is for me. My job is dangerous; my life is always in jeopardy . . . Think about it for a minute. Suppose you had a breakthrough in the project you're working on and it suddenly became viable. Don't you think the government would send in strong-armed military types, lock the place up tighter than a drum and shut out anyone who didn't have the highest level of security clearance possible? Of course they would! And you'd probably never again be able to _talk_ about the project—not with your parents, not with Darla . . . and certainly not with me, even if I _do_ work for the government myself, albeit a different branch. Each arm of the government is, to a greater or lesser degree, autonomous. We all—you, me, Jack—answer to a different person or committee of some kind that's in place for specific needs and purposes. Do you think I'd be offended if, all of a sudden, you couldn't discuss your work with me anymore?"

She looked up. "Okay, I see your point. You wouldn't be offended because you'd understand. You've been there. I get it. Sorry I took umbrage. It was childish of me."

I shook my head. "No," I assured her, "it was just a misunderstanding. I was trying—very clumsily, I'm afraid—to tell you that I _do_ trust you, because of who you are. I was being as open and honest about this whole situation as I can be under the circumstances. Except for my handlers, no one but you and Jack even have the slightest inkling of what I do. It's that covert."

"I shouldn't've asked about it in a public place like this, Mac. I'm sorry."

I shrugged. "No real harm done. But we'd better refrain from talking about it publicly again; and even when we're talking in private, we'd better make sure we're clear."

"You mean . . . no electronic surveillance or anything like that?"

"Precisely. Being a government agent makes you paranoid, I'm afraid. About the only time I'm _not_ on my guard is when I'm with you. Great time for me to get caught napping."

"So, if you took a job at Homeland Security here in Denver, would your work be _more_ or **less** dangerous than what you're doing now?"

I shrugged. "I don't know for sure, but I'd wager _less_ dangerous . . . unless, of course, I opt to continue working undercover. I wouldn't have to though, you know. Homeland has a lot of people, doing a lot of different things. I could be a computer geek and analyze data. . . That's another one of my many and varied talents."

Jamie gave me a soft smile and then looked at her watch. "Omigosh! It's after one! I've gotta get back to the lab. We're running simulations of various wormhole theories on the computers all this week. I'm due to present mine at two. I need to get it ready!"

She stood up; and, being the gentleman that I am, I got to my feet, too. Grabbing her handbag, Jamie pulled out a ten-dollar bill and placed it on the table. "That's for the tip," she said. "It's the least I can do." She then took my hand, looked into my eyes, and planted a kiss on my cheek. "Call me, Mac. I'd like to spend some more time discussing . . . your future—in Denver." Then, with a last, small smile, she turned and left the café.

"That is one remarkable woman," I said softly to the air around me. Seeing Jamie leave, the waitress turned up with the check. I took it and headed for the cash register and the exit.

 **(**)**

 _Since Mac was late returning from his lunch date with Jamie, I went ahead and continued working on producing the "evidence" that I would be planting in my favorite hollow tree._

 _So far, I considered, I'd done pretty well, stopping for only about twenty minutes to have a light lunch at noon._

 _In my mind, I had replayed the pertinent parts of the discussion Darla and I had had in her office that first day, when we'd talked about "James Kelsey" and the "evidence" he'd gathered about the supposed "terrorists" who'd ostensibly kidnapped Dad. I remembered how I'd imagined the evidence would look, and then I did my best to reproduce those images._

 _Several photos off the internet—along with doctored copies of a few documents Homeland had confiscated (which, after close scrutiny, were revealed to be little more than grocery shopping lists and schedules for private tutoring lessons)—were all put together using the cut-and-paste method Mac had shown me._

 _Once I'd printed them up, I worked on making them look authentic: like they'd been read, used, and carefully studied by at least a dozen different people. I even put a few food stains and grease spots on them here and there. Then I placed them carefully in a plastic zipper bag in as organized a fashion as possible, being careful to wear gloves all the while I was handling each item._

 _About the time I was sealing the bag, Mac walked in. "Sorry I'm late, Jack. Jamie and I kinda got into some stuff."_

" _Not a problem," I said. "I went ahead and did it without you."_

 _Being the thick-headed dolt that I often am, I didn't even really_ _ **hear**_ _that last part, or you can be darned sure I would've questioned my brother about the "stuff" that he and Jamie had gotten into. I was, however, caught up in a moment of pride in my own accomplishment and held up the bag of goodies for my little brother to see. "_ _Voilà_ _!" I said._

 _Mac's mouth dropped open and he stared. "You did it? –all by yourself?"_

 _I shrugged. "Once you showed me how, it was a piece of cake. The hardest part was finding the right pictures and documents to use. None of it's really all that important, of course. It's basically stuff that we_ _ **suspected**_ _was terrorist-related, but wasn't. I used my password to get into Homeland's files and downloaded what I needed. Then I cut and pasted, and . . ._ _voilà_ _! –instant evidence!"_

" _So, the telegrams have been sent and the 'evidence' is ready to go," said Mac. "All's that left to do, then, is find a map and get everything up to O'Shaughnessy's and to the tree."_

" _Well," said Jack, "since_ _ **I**_ _put the evidence together,_ _ **and**_ _I'm_ _gonna be the one driving up there with the stuff, how about_ _ **you**_ _look for a map while_ _ **I**_ _go pay Darla a short visit? I haven't seen her since last night. I need a quick fix."_

" _Jack, it's not gonna take me that long to find a map. You could just wait and stop in and see her before you head up into the mountains. . . ."_

 _I sighed. "All right, I'll wait. . . But_ _ **you**_ _were late getting back from your lunch date with_ _ **Jamie**_ _, and_ _ **I'd**_ _like to spend at_ _ **least**_ _as long with_ _ **Darla**_ _as_ _ **you**_ _did with her_ _ **niece**_ _."_

" _I told you, Jack: Jamie and I got into some stuff. The time kinda . . . got away from us."_

" _What stuff? What're you talking about?"_

" _Jamie figured out that I'm not a 'tree-hugger'—that I work undercover."_

 _Mac then told me the gist of the conversation he and Jamie had had. Needless to say I was a bit dumbfounded._

" _Just like that, she put two and two together and came up with you working undercover. . . Man! That woman is_ _ **frighteningly**_ _intelligent!"_

" _That's what I told you! I'd never be able to keep_ _ **anything**_ _from her. She would_ _ **know**_ _if I was being less than open and honest. . . Still, I think I'm falling for her, Jack. I think I'm gonna take your advice and put in an application at Homeland. Do you think they'd let me have a desk job?"_

" _They will if I recommend it. . . Of course, you'll have to submit a résumé—preferably one that_ _ **doesn't**_ _mention the NSA."_

" _Won't they find out about that sooner or later, anyway? I mean, don't they do extensive background checks on everyone who applies for a job there?"_

" _Yes, of course they do. But, you've been in deep cover all these years. . . As far as most people know, you're a tree hugger._ _ **I**_ _found out the truth because—despite our differences—I know more about your_ _ **character**_ _than most other people do; I dug deeper. There's no need for anyone else at Homeland to learn everything. People who are environmentally and socially conscious—particularly ex-bunko cops—aren't excluded from working for Homeland. When they interview you, just tell 'em you decided there are better ways of protecting the world than just looking out for the welfare of the ecosystem."_

" _So, you think my background as a fraud investigator will come in handy?"_

" _No doubt. . . Now, little brother,_ _ **go get us a map**_ _!"_

 _Saluting, my brother replied, "Yes, sir, Admiral Beckham, sir!"_

 _I playfully soft-punched him in the jaw. "Knock it off. Just do what you're told to do. If I can't go see Darla for a little while yet, I'm gonna call her on the phone. She has the sweetest voice . . ."_

 _Mac rolled his eyes, shook his head, and headed once again to Dad's computer._


	17. Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

 _Darla was kind of busy when I called her, but she sounded glad to hear from me, anyway. "Yeah, I'm in the middle of a small crisis here," she said. "My chief crime reporter is out sick with the flu, his back-up is a woman with a houseful of kids—all of whom seem to have that same flu—and the police just picked up a suspect in a chain of domestic burglaries that have been taking place recently in a high-class neighborhood. I may well have to go down to the police station myself to get the story."_

" _Don't worry about it, boss," I heard a male voice say, "I'll go. I covered the crime beat for fifteen years before the old man made me an associate editor."_

 _Darla sighed with relief. "Good! I'm glad you have the experience! Thanks, Joe. I owe you one—big time!"_

" _No prob, chief. You'll have your front-page story before press time."_

" _Well, that's one less thing I have to worry about," she said to me._

" _Joe's a good man, is he?"_

" _I'm thinking of recommending him as my replacement when I leave."_

" _If Dad made him an associate editor, I'm sure he's aware of the man's qualifications."_

" _Undoubtedly. But, I think he'll be more likely to give Joe the job on my say-so than he would if I expressed no opinion whatsoever."_

" _Very true. . . So, you're busy, busy, huh? I sort of am, too. Mac and I 've spent most of the day making preparations for what we're calling 'Operation: Revenge.'"_

" _Jack . . . what are you two planning?" Darla asked pointedly._

" _What you don't know can't come back to bite you in the rear later, D.J., so I'm not going to tell you."_

 _Darla sighed. "I just_ _ **know**_ _you two are up to no good. . . You really intend to make your dad pay for interfering in your lives, even though it's worked out for the best?"_

" _You just had to point that out, didn't you?"_

" _Yes, Jack, I did. I think you're being unreasonable."_

" _Your opinion has been duly noted. However, the plan is already underway. It's too late to turn back now, even if we wanted to; and believe me . . . we don't!"_

 _She sighed again. "Okay; I know when I'm talking to a wall. . . So, when are you going to be finished with this little scheme of yours?"_

" _The set-up should be complete before sundown this evening, but we won't actually see the fruits of our labors until sometime tomorrow. Depends on how things go."_

" _I was hoping we could spend some time together this evening." I heard the door of her office shut while she was speaking—time for some privacy. "Maybe we could go out to dinner?"_

" _At a place with a dance floor, perhaps?" I queried._

" _Not necessarily—unless_ _ **you**_ _want to."_

" _It was kind of nice. . . ." I admitted._

" _Anything that gets me into your arms is worthwhile, as far as I'm concerned."_

" _Ditto. So, how about a drive-in movie afterward, then?"_

" _Is there still one in operation? I thought they all went out of business years ago."_

" _They did," I confirmed, "but an enterprising middle-aged man who used to frequent one of them when he was young bought the place, fixed it up, and re-opened it. They show mostly PG-13-rated horror movies, so they can admit all the young teenagers as well as the college crowd. . . Business is, apparently, booming."_

" _And you know this because . . ."_

" _Dad told me about it . . . must've been about six months ago, when the owner called and asked if the paper could run an ad in the entertainment section. Dad thought it was a horrible idea, bringing back the drive-in movie craze. He says it's like giving teenagers a legal and legitimate place to do things they shouldn't be doing in the first place."_

" _He's right in a way," said Darla, "but teenagers are going to do what they're going to do; and if they're at a drive-in movie, at least their parents will have a better idea of where to find them if they go looking."_

" _That's certainly true. . . I remember when_ _ **I**_ _was in high school, I took Betsy Rush to the drive-in once. When her old man found out, he came looking for us. . . Of course, we were only necking. I wasn't_ _ **that**_ _bad back then. But, he dragged Betsy home and never let me take her out again."_

" _Oh, isn't that a shame!" Darla said sarcastically._

" _Oops! Forgot for a minute who I was talking to."_

" _Obviously."_

" _Sorry, Darla. So, what about it? Are you game?"_

" _I'm not much into making out in a car anymore. It's too uncomfortable."_

" _Your place again, then? –after dinner, I mean?"_

" _That would probably be best."_

" _I love you, Darla."_

" _I love you, too, Ja-a-ack!"_

" _What? Darla what's going on?"_

" _It's . . . it's . . . it's my kids! They just walked in the door!"_

" _All four of them?!"_

" _With their respective spouses. Jack, I think you'd better get down here. Something tells me that this . . . this . . ._ _ **visit**_ _has to do with you."_

" _Can't it wait? I've got a really time-consuming errand to run . . ."_

" _Jack,_ **ple-e-e-ase** _!"_

 _I sighed. "Okay, Darla, okay. Calm down. I'll get there as soon as I can. In the meantime, stick 'em in a conference room and get the lay of the land, so to speak. Then you can brief me via text message before I walk into the room cold."_

" _Okay. You got it. Conference room. Um . . . uh . . . maybe the second largest one, on the fourth floor. Yeah, that'll do it. Bye, Jack."_

 _She hung up before I could say goodbye. Poor Darla!_ _ **Wait a minute! What was I thinking?**_ _Poor_ **me** _!_ _I had to go over to the_ **Standard-Gazette** _and face those shark-infested waters! Still, I hoped her sons wouldn't be too hard on Darla because of her decision to marry me. If they were—if I got there and found her crying—I'd give those brats a piece of my mind!_

 **(*)**

"What's going on?" I asked my brother, joining him in the living room when I heard the sound of his voice raised half a decibel.

"Darla's kids just walked into the **_Standard-Gazette_** offices. She was in a panic when she saw them. She wants me to come down there." Jack sighed. "I don't really want to confront her sons, since it's entirely possible that they're vehemently opposed to Darla's marrying me. But, since that's undoubtedly what this impromptu visit is about, I don't really have much choice."

"But . . . the packet . . . the mission . . ." I stammered. "I'd volunteer to go to Bear Log Hollow myself, but I've never been up there before, and I haven't had the stealth training you've had. I'd probably step on a twig and alert every living thing in the vicinity to my presence."

Jack nodded. "I know, Mac, I know. But I can't do both at once." He appeared pensive; I just stood there, looking at him expectantly, hoping that he'd come up with a plan. After a few minutes, he finally said, "I guess I have no choice but to go up to Bear Log Hollow _after_ I finish castigating Darla's kids. I only hope it doesn't take too long. She and I were just finishing up making some romantic plans for tonight when the brats arrived. I'd like to come back from Bear Log Hollow early enough to follow through with those plans."

"Gonna do a little passionate necking?" I asked, smiling mischievously. Jack gave me a scathing look. "Sorry. I don't know what came over me. I should know better than to ask that particular question. Even if that _is_ what you're planning, you wouldn't admit it. You've never been one to kiss and tell."

"You got that right. But I don't have time to argue with you about it now. I've really gotta get to the paper and help Darla out. She shouldn't have to go through this alone—not when it has to do with me in the first place."

"I'll finish up here while you're gone. Tell me how to get to O'Shaughnessy's cabin in Aurora and I can take the map up there tonight . . . after ten, did you say? –if you aren't back by then from your rendezvous with Darla. If you're done with the packet, you can take it with you and head immediately up to Bear Log Hollow when you're finished terrorizing Darla's kids."

"I'm not gonna _**terrorize**_ anybody!" Jack protested. "But I _**am**_ prepared to get mean and nasty if they've done anything to upset Darla."

"That could be counterproductive."

"True. I'll try to control my temper."

"Good idea. Now, how do I find O'Shaughnessy's place?"

Jack gave me an actual address, which surprised me. "Why?" he asked. "It's not like he lives in the middle of nowhere. His cabin is set back from the road, but it's a good, well-paved road, and so is the driveway. The address is posted on top of the mailbox—which is at the end of the driveway—and there's a lamppost close to it so that you can read the numbers, even when it's dark. You shouldn't have a bit of trouble finding it. The mailbox is shaped like a horse's head."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"Don't tell me: mail gets put into it through the horse's mouth."

"Yep. Shaun is a huge Broncos fan."

"What? No Irish theme at all?"

"Well, the house is painted Shamrock Green . . ."

"A horse's head mailbox and a shamrock-green-colored house. . . I think I can find it."

"Good! Now, I really do hafta go." He grabbed the duffle bag with his camo fatigues in it and then went into Dad's office and picked up the packet of evidence he had created. "See you later tonight. Don't call me if you have trouble finding Shaun's place. . . Okay, if you really _**have**_ to . . . but only if you _**really**_ have to. . . "

"Understood. Good luck to you, too, bro. Hope everything goes well with Darla's kids."

Jack waved goodbye as he turned and headed for the door, the packet tucked beneath his left arm. It looked as though it was going to be a busy day and night for both of us.


	18. Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

 _Before exiting the Cherokee in the parking garage_ _at the_ _ **Standard-Gazette**_ _, I put the duffel bag with my camo fatigues on the floor in front of the passenger seat and then slid the packet of fabricated evidence into the compartment between the two seats, closing the cover to conceal it from curious eyes._

 _When I got off the elevator on the fourth floor of the building, Darla's personal assistant—a mid-30's-ish woman named Doralee DeSpain—was waiting for me. "Mrs. Finley instructed me to take you to the conference room where she took her kids and their spouses. It's the second largest room in the building and the largest on this floor . . . not that that's relevant to your reasons for being here. . ."_

" _So, any idea what the atmosphere is like in there?" I asked._

" _No, sir, none at all. The young men—particularly her own sons—seemed kind of . . ._ _ **tense**_ _, if you get my drift."_

" _Tense, huh? That can't be good." I sighed. "I asked Darla to text me before I go in, to give me a sort of 'heads-up' on what's happening in there. I haven't heard from her yet."_

" _She's probably been busy fielding questions since she went in there. I doubt she's had half a minute to send even a_ _ **short**_ _text."_

" _Huh. Guess I'm gonna hafta wing it, then." We stopped outside of a room whose door read "Conference Room 4A." I nodded my head at my guide. "Thanks for getting me here, Ms. DeSpain." Then I turned the knob and opened the door._

 _I saw Darla, seated in a large chair at the head of the long conference table. Her kids and their spouses occupied eight chairs at the opposite end of said table. Cups of coffee sat on the table in front of six of the eight young people; the other two had bottles of water._

" _So," Darla was saying, "now you know everything you need to know about my past—and present—relationship with Jack Beckham . . . ."_

" _Ahem." I cleared my throat noisily as I entered the room, not wanting her to say another word that might turn out to be embarrassing for both of us . . . well, for_ _ **me**_ _, anyway. I don't like to listen to people go on about me to others. If someone's going to sing my praises, I either prefer that they share their feelings with me in private; or, if they're going to do it publicly, that they do it when I'm not around. I don't like being the object of attention of a roomful of people. It's happened two or three times at testimonial dinners of one sort or another, and I've squirmed in my seat the entire time. I think Darla understood that about me._

 _She smiled, rose from her chair and came to me, putting her hands on my chest. "Everything's okay, Jack," she whispered. "The kids weren't concerned about my marrying you_ **per se** _; they were just worried that I might be rushing into things, getting engaged so quickly when we haven't seen each other for thirty-five years."_

" _Did you explain to them that it only took a couple of days for both of us to realize that those thirty-five years don't matter?"_

" _I told them it only took_ _ **me**_ _a couple of_ _ **minutes**_ _to realize it." She lowered her arms and took my hand. "Come on over here. They'd like to ask you a few questions."_

" _Oh. . . O-kay," I said reluctantly. My heart got stuck in my throat._ _ **Darla**_ _might think everything was okay, but . . . I wasn't so sure. On the other hand, I didn't know her kids._

" _Well, everyone . . . here he is," said Darla a bit nervously, "Jack Beckham. . . uh,_ _ **Admiral**_ _Jack Beckham."_

 _One of the girls, a petite strawberry blonde, said, "The portrait doesn't do you justice, Admiral."_

" _Portrait?" I looked around. Oh, gee! Thanks, Dad! "My father would be responsible for putting that picture up there," I said. I then turned to Darla. "That painting is a blow-up of the eleven-by-fourteen photo I gave him before I shipped out for Desert Storm. I can't believe he did this!" I shook my head, bowed it and moaned, rubbing my temples. "I hate the fact that, since he owns this paper, he can put any darned_ _ **thing**_ _he wants any darned_ _ **place**_ _he wants!"_

" _Your father owns this newspaper?" one of the young men asked._

 _I raised my head. "Darla didn't tell you? . . . Yeah, he owns it. It's_ _ **because**_ _he owns it that your mom is working here. He hired her specially, despite the fact that her journalistic experience has primarily been with a small-town newspaper—no offense."_

 _One of the girls spoke up. "She said your dad brought her here to help him with a plan he had to get you and your brother to bond. She didn't say he owned the paper."_

" _It was an oversight," Darla explained. "It wasn't an_ _ **intentional**_ _omission. I just didn't think about it."_

" _So," said one of the other young men, "did it work?"_

 _I shrugged. "More or less. . . When we found out what Dad and Uncle George were up to, we stopped fighting with each other and turned our attention toward finding a way to get even. Mac and I may not have a lot in common, but neither of us likes being manipulated. In fact, we were in the process of putting our plan for revenge into action when your mom told me you were here and asked me to come by. I've got some stuff out in my rental vehicle I need to deliver as soon as I leave here."_

" _So, what kind of revenge are you planning?" the fourth young man asked._

 _I smiled. "Sorry, it's_ **top secret**. _I haven't even told Darla—and I don't intend to. If you want to know what our plan is—and if you're still in town—watch one of the local newscasts tomorrow night at ten . . . or eleven or . . . whenever. I'm sure it'll get full coverage."_

" _Jack, you can't be serious! You're doing something big enough to get it on the TV news and you won't tell_ _ **me**_ _what it is?"_

" _Yeah, Mom should get the scoop!" said her oldest son._

 _Darla looked pointedly at the young man. "That's_ _ **not**_ _what I meant. If Jack is going to humiliate his own father—who happens to be the owner of this newspaper—I don't want the story spread all over our own front page! But I'd at_ _ **least**_ _like to be fore_ **warned** _—so that I can be fore_ **armed** _, just in case anybody calls and asks questions!"_

 _I shrugged. "What you don't know can't hurt you, D. Anyway, you know the reason_ _**why**_ _we're doing this. You just don't know what_ _ **this**_ _is. All I can say is, if you_ _ **do**_ _want the story, get a reporter up to Pike National Forest tomorrow evening at around eight. Have him keep his eyes peeled for helicopters and/or jeeps. It should prove interesting."_

" _Jack, you didn't!"_

" _Not yet, but we will."_

" _Who—"_

" _We haven't made up our minds yet. We're gonna discuss it further when I return home tonight."_

" _Do any of you have any idea what they're talking about?" one of the girls asked._

 _Everyone shook their heads. "They obviously understand each other, though," said the oldest girl. "Shows how well they really know each other."_

 _The eight of them were staring at us; we looked at them and smiled sheepishly. "It's Jack-and-Darla shorthand, so to speak," I said. "Yeah, we understand each other—very well." I looked raptly into Darla's eyes and smiled. She blushed. Oh, yeah! She understood._

 _One of the boys noticed. "He just propositioned her with his eyes!"_

" _What?!" queried another one._

 _I turned back toward the table and addressed the group. "I did_ _ **not**_ _proposition her! That 'look' was simply a non-verbal way of telling her how I feel about her—nothing more. As far as I'm concerned, Darla is the epitome of everything that's_ _ **good**_ _about women. I wouldn't do anything to change that."_

 _I heard some sighs of relief from the Peanut Gallery, and Darla turned her attention back to me. I smiled softly and said, "I'd better go—if you think they're done with me. I've still got a lot to do to prepare for tomorrow's little show . . . and I'd like to get done early enough to have dinner out with you this evening, as planned."_

" _With dancing?"_

" _If I'm not too tired. I'm not as young as I used to be, you know."_

 _Darla turned back to her family. "Anybody else have questions for Jack? He really does need to leave, and_ _ **I**_ _have work to do. So, if your questions and concerns have all been dealt with satisfactorily, I suggest we call this meeting adjourned."_

" _I have just one more question," the youngest girl spoke up. "If the two of you are engaged, how come Mom's not wearing a ring yet?"_

 _Darla explained. "We were planning to get a ring before going to_ _ **visit**_ _all of you. But, since everything has happened so fast, and we've been so busy trying to figure out the entirety of Mr. Beckham's plan and where he and his brother are hiding out, we haven't really had time to go shopping for a ring. I expect we'll get one within the next few days."_

 _I took hold of Darla's left hand, held it up so that the group seated around the table could see it, and confirmed what Darla had just said. "I shall indeed be putting a ring on this hand sometime very soon." Having said that, I lowered her hand, but kept hold of it. "Now, if there's nothing else, would you please excuse us? I'd like to give your mother a proper farewell."_

 _I led Darla out to the hallway, and, once the door had closed behind us with a heavy clap, I gathered her into my arms and said, "I love you, Darla Jane McIntyre Finley. I promise you, I'll put a ring back on that finger ASAP; and when I'm through punishing Dad, I'll thank him for arranging this." I then lowered my head and pressed my lips to hers. Man, did they taste good! I couldn't get over that—Darla's lips. Nothing sweeter in the whole world. It made me want to keep kissing her and never let up._

 _Then the bell on the elevator rang. It was stopping on this floor. I reluctantly broke contact and withdrew my lips, still holding her in my arms. She was weak in the knees. I felt her go limp, just as she had the night before. I couldn't let go of her, for fear she'd crumble to a heap on the floor. I held her to me and she sighed. The elevator doors closed again without taking on or dropping off any passengers. I guessed someone must've decided that discretion was the better part of valor and moved on._

" _Can you stand now?" I asked quietly._

 _Darla nodded. "Yes, I have my knees back."_

 _I caressed her cheek again. "I'll pick out a ring while I'm in D.C."_

" _In D.C.?"_

" _I'll tell you tonight over dinner. I'll call you later and let you know what time the reservations are for, but right now I hafta go. Take care, D.J. I love you," I concluded, as I withdrew my hand from her cheek._

" _Reservations?" Darla called out to me as I turned to go. "Jack . . ."_

 _I turned back again and smiled. "Dress up," I said. "We're putting on the dog tonight."_

 _I felt her eyes drilling into me as I headed for the elevator. Tonight would be delightful._

 **(*)**

 _I changed into my camo fatigues in the outdoor restroom of an old, beat-up service station in the foothills and drove the Cherokee into the mountains. As I drew near the locale of O'Shaughnessy's Outpost, I took out my cellphone and called the store. Shaun's son answered. I asked to speak to his father, so the youngster took over tending the till while I spoke to Shaun. I heard a screen door bang shut. The phone was a cordless, so Shaun was taking it outside for privacy._

" _What's up, Jack? Has there been a change of plans, or something?"_

" _Just a minor one, Shaun. I've got a dinner date tonight, so_ _ **Mac's**_ _gonna bring the map up to your place instead of me."_

" _Did you tell him how to find it?"_

" _Gave him directions a blind turkey could follow."_

" _That's reassuring."_

" _Any sign of my kinfolk today?"_

" _They'll probably come by sometime in the next hour to pick up the stuff they ordered for supper tonight."_

" _Which is?"_

 _Shaun's voice lost much of its warmth. "I don't see that it matters what your pa and your uncle decide to eat for supper, Jack. They're coming in sometime within the hour; that's all you need to know. You might as well get on up there to the holler and wait for 'em to leave so you can play your dirty little trick on 'em."_

 _I was getting concerned. I pulled into a niche at the side of the road. I couldn't concentrate on where I was going while carrying on a worrisome conversation with Shaun; and if we talked much longer, I'd soon be out of range and my cellphone would be useless. I was worried because it sounded as though Shaun was beginning to disapprove of our little scheme. Maybe having Dad and Uncle George as regular customers over the past few days had caused him to warm up to them a bit. This did_ _ **not**_ _bode well. If he decided to take their side and turn against Mac and me when the Feds came poking around, we could get into some pretty hot water._

" _You having an attack of conscience, Shaun? 'Cause if you've changed your mind about helping us, I'll tell Mac not to bring the map up to your place and we'll call the whole thing off. This is meant to be a practical joke, perpetrated on two men who had the gall to manipulate two_ _ **other**_ _men, which is, in and of itself, a crime against human nature—even if it_ _ **was**_ _meant for our own good! Now, are you gonna help us, or not?"_

" _I'm in, Jack; I'm in. Your pa and your uncle have, from time to time, bartered me down to practically peanuts when buying stuff from my store. I owe 'em a bit for that, if nothing else. You can trust me. If the Feds or anyone else official-looking come around asking questions, I'll do what I said I'd do. I've got your back, Jack. Count on it."_

" _I knew I could, Shaun; I knew I could. You just had me worried there for a second. I was afraid you might be getting a little soft on the old coots, seeing as how they've been regular customers for the past few days."_

" _I only lost my temper 'cause they're getting some really fine fixings for their dinner—stuff that I normally sell for a total of about thirty-five dollars—and they're only paying me ten! I'm a bit touchy about that. Not something I like to advertise—even to you. But, seeing as how it's your own kinfolk, and you're aiming to bring 'em down a peg, I'm hoping_ _ **I**_ _might get something out of their punishment, too."_

" _Like what?" I asked._

" _Well, I'm bound to get at least a good chuckle out of it."_

" _That you are, Shaun; that you are. Just tune in to the ten o'clock news tomorrow night. You'll get a bellyful of laughs."_

" _I'll still be on duty here at the store when your 'guests' start arriving. I might just head out to the holler myself and watch the proceedings from behind a tree. What time're you planning to call out the cavalry?"_

" _We figured we'd give them about an hour to settle in, get comfortable, start eating and drinking and swapping stories . . . I think I'll call around eight. Might take them all of fifteen or twenty minutes to get someone up here."_

" _Who're you gonna call?"_

" _We haven't really decided. In all likelihood we'll call Homeland."_

 _Shaun grunted. "Don't you think there's a possibility that, whoever you call, your uncle and your old man might squeal and tell them it was you and Mac that set them up?"_

" _They might if they get mad enough. I'm just hoping they'll take the joke in the spirit in which it's intended."_

" _I thought this was for revenge."_

" _Well, it is, but . . . Yeah, I see your point." I sighed. "I guess, then, if they_ _ **do**_ _decide to squeal, we'll just have to squeal right back at 'em."_

" _There's always that option; but wouldn't that mean getting your lady friend involved?"_

" _Not necessarily. We'd just say that Uncle George told us Dad had been grabbed by terrorists, and while we were investigating, he, too, disappeared, which led us to discover that it was a trick the two of them were playing on us for reasons of their own; so, we decided to play one on them in return."_

" _Sounds plausible—and just enough of a 'guy' thing to be believable."_

" _Especially since it's basically true—except that they're not playing a joke on us; they're just trying to run our lives._ _ **I**_ _think that, if our part in this little endeavor is uncovered, even_ _ **they**_ _would rather have the public believe it was a practical joke than to have it known that they were trying to manipulate us. . . Most people_ _ **hate**_ _the way parents interfere in the lives of their grown children. I know_ _ **I**_ _do—even when it's not_ _ **my**_ _life that's being interfered with."_

 _Shaun grunted again. "Ain't it the truth? So, Homeland Security, then?"_

" _Probably. It'll be fun to see Dad squirming under the eyes of the very people I work for. Loads of fun." Having said that, I bade Shaun goodbye, closed and put away my cellphone, and continued my drive toward Bear Log Hollow._

 _As I drove, I saw a vehicle coming toward me. It was Dad's old familiar Land Rover. So, Shaun was right: they were on their way to the outpost to pick up their dinner supplies. Even though I knew they wouldn't recognize my rented Jeep, I figured there was a chance they'd wave at me—being the friendly guys that they were—and take a look to see if maybe the person in the Cherokee was someone they knew._

 _I considered putting on my shades, pulling the brim of my hat down lower, and putting the sun visor down, but I figured they might find it a bit suspicious that someone was going into the woods with sunglasses on and his visor down. . . What to do?_

 _I was saved at the last minute by a side road that turned off to the right. I'd never noticed it before, and I didn't know where it led to, but it was better than passing my father and my uncle and taking a chance on their seeing and recognizing me. I turned casually onto the side road—as though it had been my intention to turn there all along—and drove until I found a spot where I could turn around. When I got back onto the main road, I took a look in my rearview mirror. I could just make out the tail end of the Land Rover. That was a relief. Now, if I could just get the packet into the tree and get out of the vicinity before they came back up this road, I'd be home free._

 _I parked in what I could tell—by the tire tracks left in the dirt—was the spot where Dad's Land Rover had been. It was the same spot where we'd parked all those years ago when we had first come here. It was about thirty yards from the target tree._

 _Dad and I had come back here a few more times after that first visit, and each time the tree had been a little bit taller and a little bit bigger round. It had been more than thirty years since the last time, though, and I couldn't believe how much the thing had grown. The hole was now above my head, but I could still reach into it with my hand—which I did, feeling around in order to make certain that nothing else was in there._

 _To my surprise, my fingers came across something that felt a lot like the bag I was holding in my other hand. I pulled the object out. It was, indeed, a plastic zipper bag. I didn't waste time perusing its contents. I had a notion Dad had put it there for Mac and me to find, so I held onto it while putting_ _ **our**_ _little bag of goodies in its place. I then hurried back to the Cherokee and went on my way._

 _I knew there was a chance I'd pass the Land Rover on its way back from the outpost, but the sun was in my face now, and I figured my outline and my features would be too obscured for them to get a good look at me, especially with my shades on and my visor down. So, I went on my way; and when I_ _ **did**_ _come upon the Land Rover, in spite of being nervous as a cat in a rainstorm, I raised a friendly hand in greeting. They waved back, as I knew they would, and that was that. My heartbeat returned to normal and I stopped sweating, driving down from the mountain as carefree as a lark._

 _When I got back home and went upstairs to change for my dinner with Darla, I found my brother in his room, packing up his things. "What's up, Mac?" I asked._

" _Well, you know, Jack, when everything hits the fan tomorrow night, Dad's gonna be madder 'n a wet hen. I don't think we're going to be particularly welcome here after that. I just figured it'd be better to get out of here_ _ **before**_ _he has the chance to kick us out."_

" _Got a room for the night?"_

 _He nodded. "Yeah, at the Motel 6. They still have some vacancies if you wanna move out, too—unless, of course, you decide to stay at Darla's . . . on the couch, of course." He gave me a skeptical look, knowing by now what I would say to that. Still, he seemed to take pleasure in baiting me._

" _I'm gonna wait till morning to move out, I think," I told him. "I'd like to spend as much time with Darla this evening as possible; and I don't wanna have to come home early, just so I can pack my bags and leave."_

" _So, how did the drop-off go? Took longer than I thought it would."_

 _I told Mac my story. He whistled. "So, what's in the bag, then?"_

" _Don't know. I haven't looked at it yet."_

 _He stood up and said, "Well, then, let's have a look, shall we?"_

 _I held the bag up and opened it. Inside was an envelope, addressed to Mac and me._

" _What's this?" I wondered aloud, removing the envelope from the bag._

" _A letter Dad wrote to us, perhaps?" my brother replied._

" _Very probably."_

" _Do you wanna read it?—or should I?"_

 _I tilted my head to one side as I considered. Then I handed Mac the envelope. "You read it. I'm tired, and I still have a long evening ahead of me."_

" _You could always cancel your date with Darla . . ."_

" _Yeah, like_ _ **that's**_ _gonna happen . . ."_

" _Well, then, stop whining and let me read."_

" _Read, by all means."_

" _ **Hello, boys!**_

" _ **Congratulations on finding my location. You've done a good job. I hope this little exercise has taught you a thing or two about cooperation. I'm well aware that you two think you have very little in common; but the truth is, you're more alike than you realize. You've probably found that out by now."**_

 _"Yeah, right!" Mac groused._

 _"Just get on with it, Mac," I scolded._

" _ **I'm sure that what I've done will probably leave you both angry with me for some time, but I hope you'll keep in mind that I did it because I love you. Since I knew you'd find out where I've been hiding fairly quickly—Mac being the great puzzle solver that he is—you might wonder why I'm leaving you this letter rather than saying everything in person once you get here."**_

" _The thought had crossed my mind, yeah," I said. Mac nodded his agreement._

" _ **I decided it might be a good idea to put this letter in the tree, just in case—especially after Carla failed to do her part in convincing you that I'd really been abducted. (When George learned that things had gone awry, he volunteered to get himself abducted and join me. We both suspected you might take your time in actually coming up here to get the clues that would supposedly help you to find us, because you want to make us sweat it out for a while. We don't blame you: we've manipulated you and for that we're sorry. But, in this case, we both feel that the end justifies the means.)**_

" _ **As to why we've done this . . . George & I would like to see both of you more often, and we'd like to see you both happily married. There's nothing sadder in this world than growing old alone—believe me, I know. **_

" _ **know** ** _that I remembered her. I had a sudden epiphany that if Jamie were to be involved—however indirectly—Mac and she might hit it off_ and there might be a chance that the two of them would end up together. I'm still hoping this will turn out to be the case. Jamie is a fine, intelligent, resourceful young woman. You could hardly do better, Mac. I hope you realize that.**_

" _ **Even as I write this letter, I know that there's a possibility (however slim) that you'll come to the realization that George and I are actually camping out up here and that there is no packet of evidence. If so, I expect you'll try to catch us unawares, or something along those lines. I wanted to tell you so many things that I decided to write this letter and leave it for you to find, just in case you come sneaking up here while we're away from camp—to put some kind of plan for revenge into action—and thereby deny me the privilege of saying what I want to say in person.**_

" _ **Whatever your plan is, we're ready for it, and there will be no repercussions. We've discussed this thoroughly, and we're both agreed on that score. We know that, if we'd been in a similar circumstance with our dad and uncle, we'd've wanted revenge, too. No man likes to feel that he's being manipulated by his parents—or anyone else, for that matter. But, as I said, we felt that the end justifies the means. You two are probably getting along better by now; and, if I'm any judge, Jack and Carla will be married before the year is out; Mac will move back to Denver; and he and Jamie will be dating steadily. If I'm wrong, then I don't know people; and after more than fifty years in the newspaper business, I believe I do.**_

" _ **If you're reading this letter it's because you did decide to sneak up here while we were away, and I want you to know that we check daily to be sure this bag is still in the tree. The only way you'll be able to catch us by surprise is if you substitute another bag in its place. We don't actually pull it out; we just reach inside the tree and feel around. So, if you are reading this letter on the sly, congratulations. We'll see you when we come down from the mountain. Until then, best of luck to you both."**_

" _Well now, ain't that a kick in the head!" Mac said._

 _I smiled. "Good thing I put that other bag in the tree, isn't it?"_

 _Mac nodded. "Yeah. A_ _ **real**_ _good thing. I guess I can stop packing. If there aren't going to be any repercussions, we don't need to leave."_

" _I still wouldn't wanna be here when Dad comes home, whether he intends to punish us or not. . . I mean, think about it: after what we're about to do to him, do you really wanna be here and have to look him in the eye when he walks in the door afterward?"_

" _Uh, I see your point. I'll finish packing."_

" _You could wait until tomorrow morning to leave, though. No need to spend more time in a hotel room than is absolutely necessary._

" _That's true. What about you? When are_ _ **you**_ _planning to move out?"_

" _I'm flying back to D.C. tomorrow to turn in my resignation, from both the Navy and DHS."_

" _Does Darla know?"_

" _I'm telling her over dinner tonight. And I'm bringing an engagement ring back from D.C. with me. In the meantime, I'm gonna make some dinner reservations and have a nice, long soak in the tub."_

" _You'd better rinse it out good when you're done. Dad wouldn't want you to leave his bathtub a mess."_

" _What do you take me for?—a swine?"_

 _Mac tilted his head quickly back and forth, as though he were considering the question._

 _I tossed a throw-cushion at him. "Get back to your room and pack, smart-aleck!"_

 _Mac laughed and headed up the stairs. "I'm going . . . I'm going!"_

 _I picked the cushion up from where it had landed and tossed it back onto the sofa; then I went upstairs, too. Making reservations this late, I figured I'd have at least an hour or two to get ready for dinner. I could take my time and do it right. Since it would be a few days before I would see her again, I wanted tonight to be extra special. And Darla deserved the very best._


	19. Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

 _It was almost quarter to six by the time I got upstairs to Dad's room. I pulled the phone book out of the nightstand and called the best restaurant in town to make reservations. When I got on the line with the reservations clerk, I asked for an intimate table for two. The man told me he had just one and that it would be available at seven-thirty. I thanked him, ended the call, and then phoned Darla._

" _Jack?" she asked._

" _Yep, it's me."_

" _I have caller I.D. Your dad's name appeared, so I figured it had to be you. I was just wondering why you didn't use your cellphone."_

"' _Cause I'm in Dad's bedroom and the phone is right here. I'm calling to tell you that the reservations are for seven-thirty. It was kind of last minute and that was the best I could do. I'll come by your place as soon as I'm ready. Maybe we can spend some quality time together before we go."_

" _In that case, I'll try to be ready when you get here. . . Speaking of which . . . you said I should dress up, Jack, but . . ._ _ **how**_ _dressed up should I be? There aren't a lot of restaurants in Shiloh Heights, Washington, never mind any that have a strict dress code."_

" _Don't sweat it, Darla. You don't have to wear a cocktail dress or anything like that; but I'm wearing my dress uniform because I don't have a suit with me, so just dress with that in mind."_

" _I'll look through my closet and see what I've got," she assured me. Then she said, "So, what made you decide to go for someplace semi-upscale?"_

" _I'm going to be in D.C. for a few days, and I want the last night we're going to be able to spend together for a while to be something special—that includes dancing."_

" _Are you sure you'll have enough energy for dancing?"_

" _I'll be fine. Even if all we do is move around in circles like we did at your place last night, I'm going to hold you in my arms as_ _ **much**_ _as I can and for as_ _ **long**_ _as I can."_

" _Sounds nice," she said softly, her voice sounding almost like a purr. "See you in a little while, Jack. I love you."_

" _I love you, too, Darla. See you soon."_

 _After we'd said our goodbyes, I showered, shaved, splashed on some Old Spice, and put on my uniform. I stood in front of the full-length mirror attached to Dad's closet door. Even if I did think so myself, I looked good, I smelled good, and I felt . . . a lot of things. There seemed to be a fist about the size of a pomegranate in my stomach, and it was squeezing so hard I could barely breathe._

 _Tonight I would tell Darla that I was planning to resign my commission and quit my job—which I didn't think she'd mind all that much, contrary to what Mac and I had previously supposed. But, I didn't yet have a game plan for my future. What would I do once I retired from the Navy? Maybe Darla could help in that department. Maybe, if we put our heads together, we could come up with a viable way for an under-sixty navy vet to spend his declining years without going stir crazy. I wasn't ready to plant myself in a rocking chair or a porch swing just yet. I needed to stay active, and I was pretty sure Darla would understand that._

 _But it wasn't as if I needed a job. My retirement income would be more than enough for us to live off of. I had a lot of money in various retirement and savings accounts; and, since I'd been single for the past twenty years, my personal expenses had been relatively light, which had allowed me to keep a significant amount in my checking account at all times, as well. I doubted that Darla had any idea how well off I was—not that it would matter to her one way or the other. She loved me for_ _ **myself**_ _,_ **not** _for my money. Still, it would be a_ _ **serious**_ _discussion, and I wasn't sure how she'd react—what she'd say._

 _I sighed. There was nothing for it but to take whatever might come. I reminded myself that Darla was nothing if not sympathetic and understanding. I smoothed out my sleeves, straightened my tie and my epaulets and left._

 **(** _ *****_ **)**

While Jack was getting ready for his dinner date with Darla, I finished packing and then sat down on the edge of my bed to think . . . about Jamie.

I felt like an idiot, falling so hard for someone so quickly—especially someone as wholly dedicated to her work as Jamie was. I mean, even if—in a moment of insanity—we decided we wanted to get married and spend the rest of our lives together, what kind of a life would we have with both of us working for the government? We'd be under constant scrutiny. Someone somewhere would always be wondering if one or both of us would sell out to some foreign power for filthy lucre. Obviously, the whole idea was ludicrous. But paranoid security personnel have no way of knowing that. They see too much of deception and betrayal to believe in anyone or anything—no matter how good it may look on the surface.

I sighed. Maybe it was time to get out of the spy game altogether. Of course, if I decided to cut my ties with the NSA and give up fieldwork, I could always apply for a job as an intelligence analyst at Homeland. . . No, that wouldn't really work, either. It might not be as dangerous as going after the terrorists who were behind the sham environmentalist groups, but I'd still be under constant scrutiny and considered a possible security risk because of the very nature of my job. And, without any knowledge of my NSA clearance and background, the paranoid people at Homeland would only have a small portion of the picture that was my undercover persona. I sighed again. If I wanted to have any kind of life with Jamie, I'd have to get out of the intelligence service completely.

But, should I really go that far? Jamie and I had only known each other for a few days. True, we really did _like_ each other—a lot. But was that enough of a reason for me to change my entire way of life? I wasn't in love with her yet—that much I knew. But I also knew that I _could_ be if I _wanted_ to be. With a little encouragement on her part, I might be able to let go of all the fears and personal insecurities that had kept me from making a commitment to anyone before.

I had a very big decision to make and not a lot of time in which to make it—which is why I needed desperately to spend more _**time**_ with Jamie. I had to know if she was interested enough in me to make it worth my while to _**change**_ _ **careers**_ , as well as to make the move back to Denver.

As I took my cellphone from my pocket, my heart stopped . . . started again . . . and then leapt into my throat, where it lodged itself for the rest of the night.

 **(**)**

" _Hi," Darla said airily as she opened the door to me. "Come on in." There was just a trace of a smile on her face, but her eyes were aglow. It was definitely the look of a woman in love. I did my best to return the look, although I had a feeling my smile was just a little bit more noticeable than hers. Every time I saw Darla and knew that—for whatever reason—she was still in love with me, I felt like I had a new lease on life._

 _I held my cover in my hand and waited while she closed the door behind me. Then she came and stood in front of me, grabbed my hat from my hand, tossed it onto the coffee table, and took both of my hands in hers, looking at me with something bordering on awe._

" _You look so incredibly handsome in your dress uniform!" she breathed. "But then, you always did."_

" _You look taller," I commented, looking down at her feet. She was wearing heels, which caused the top of her head to come up to a higher level on my chest than usual—high enough that she didn't have to stand on her toes to touch my chin with her lips. After she'd kissed that prominent lower portion of my head, I pressed my lips to hers while they were still within easy reach. It was a soft, tender kiss—not too lengthy, not too passionate . . . just sweet and satisfying._

 _After our lips parted, Darla backed away a little—without letting go of my hands—and asked, "Is this okay? –or will I need something a little dressier?"_

" _It's just fine, D. In fact, you look positively radiant."_

" _That's_ _ **love**_ _, Jack—not the dress."_

" _I think it's a little of both." The dress in question was a shade commonly referred to as peacock blue. It was kind of bell-shaped—at least, that's how_ _ **I**_ _thought of it. (Darla later told me that that particular shape is known as an A-line.) It had beads—of matching peacock blue—sewn on in a kind of vertically-running serpentine pattern all around it, the "serpents" being at about four-inch intervals. Said "serpents" started just below the, uh, bodice and wound down to about two inches above the hem. The hem came to about three inches below her knees._

 _The dress had a round neck that seemed to lie right on top of her collarbone; the sleeves reached halfway down her forearms—I think they're called three-quarter length sleeves in the fashion trade—and they were . . . flared, I guess you'd call it. The flaring was gradual, though, starting at her shoulder and running down to her forearm. She had on a string of pearls that reached to right about where her cleavage would be if it was showing, and one of those loose bracelet-watch things on her left wrist._

 _The dress brought out the blue highlights in her hazel eyes. Even through the lenses of her glasses I could see it. She never looked more beautiful—at least to me._

 _As for those high-heeled shoes she was wearing . . . they were white, with crisscrossed straps and open toes and had cork wedges in the heels. Darla had never been much for strapless dresses or backless shoes. Considering that the cork wedges were around three inches high at the back, I was glad there was more than a thin, white leather strap holding her shoes on her feet—especially if we were going to do any dancing. I brought this up to Darla, so she looked down at her feet and said, "Oh! I hadn't even thought about that! I'll go change into some lower heels." She then looked back up at me and explained, "I just wanted to make it a little easier for you to reach me when we're standing toe to toe."_

" _Darla, have I ever complained about your height?"_

 _She shook her head hesitantly. "No, not that I can remember, but—"_

" _No buts!" I said firmly, pulling my right hand from hers and gently tapping her on the tip of her nose with my finger. "You've been the same height since you were . . . how old?—fourteen?—fifteen?"_

" _I was a freshman when I reached my full height. It took a little longer for the rest of my body to catch up."_

 _I reddened slightly at that remark; so did she. I wondered why she'd said it. Maybe_ _ **she**_ _was a little nervous, too._

 _I retrieved my left hand from her grasp and placed both my hands on her cheeks, holding her face tenderly. (Her hands went immediately to my waist.) I gazed intently into her eyes and said, "Deej, there has never been a time in my life when I've cared one iota about how tall or short you are. You've_ _ **always**_ _been shorter than I am, and that's the way it'll always_ _ **be**_. _There's no need for you to wear high heels to accommodate me. I'm fine with lowering my head and bending down as far as need be to reach your luscious lips . . . or your throat, or your forehead . . . or anything else my lips decide to investigate . . . ." I demonstrated as I spoke, and Darla whimpered and sighed. It was a rather . . ._ _ **satisfying**_ _sound._

 _When I stopped kissing her, she opened her eyes and gazed into mine. I knew from the way I was feeling that my eyes were probably shining—with both love and amusement. Darla was over fifty years old, had been married for thirty years, and_ _ **still**_ _I could move her with a few well-placed kisses. I found it immensely gratifying. She laid her head on my chest and I pulled her to me, as I'd done earlier that day. "I love you, Deej," I told her._ **And** , _I thought to myself,_ **I love that you're so easy to thrill** _. I had never known any other woman who got weak in the knees as easily as Darla did. She truly was a treasure—and soon she would be all mine. . .._

 **(***)**

"Hey," I said to Jamie when she answered her phone.

"Mac! Hi. What's going on?"

"I, uh, was wondering if maybe I could . . . take you out to dinner, or something?"

"Um . . . I've already got a Marie Callender's lasagna in the microwave, but there's enough for two, if you'd like to join me." She paused momentarily and then explained, "I usually eat half the first night and then finish it the next."

I couldn't help wondering why she didn't just buy the smaller size, but it occurred to me that she might just really _like_ the stuff.

"I, uh, don't wanna deprive you of tomorrow night's dinner . . ."

"It's okay, really; I don't mind. But, if you really feel guilty about it, you can take me _**out**_ to dinner tomorrow night . . ."

"You've got a deal. I'll be there soon as I can. Uh . . . where, exactly, do you live?"

She gave me her address and general directions on how to get there. I was out the door in under two minutes.

 **(****)**

 _Our intimate table for two really was. It was a small, round table—barely large enough to hold everything we decided to order. The menus were about ready to fall off the edge. I expected they'd have to remove one set of dishes before bringing the next._

" _Shall I order us a bottle of champagne?" I asked._

" _If you want some, that's up to you. I prefer to keep a clear head."_

" _Do you ever drink? You didn't have any wine at your place the other night, even though you served_ _ **me**_ _some: I noticed you put lemonade in your glass."_

 _She nodded and then shook her head. "Yes; no. I mean . . . I made the decision years ago not to imbibe. If you never drink, you never develop a taste for it, never become an alcoholic, never get pulled over for DWI, never hurt yourself or anyone else in a drunk driving accident, never develop cirrhosis of the liver, never become an abusive drunk and hurt people . . . Have you ever seen my brother Terry when he's been drinking?" She shook her head again. "He's the main reason I chose not to drink."_

" _A mean drunk, is he?"_

" _Awful! Beth took the kids and left him twenty years ago. Since then, he's only gotten worse. No one's been able to convince him to go to rehab. His life is in the toilet, but that just makes him drink all the more. It's a horrible, vicious cycle. I'd feel sorry for him, but he brought most of it on himself."_

" _I know. He started drinking the hard stuff when he was in high school," I told her. "I saw him in the locker room on game days, hiding a bottle in his locker. He thought it gave him an edge." I shook_ _ **my**_ _head this time. "It only made him_ _ **think**_ _he was unstoppable."_

" _I know; I watched him. . . I couldn't_ _ **believe**_ _what was happening! –right in front of my eyes, my brother was turning into someone I didn't recognize. I never did understand why Beth married him in the first place."_

" _Yeah, I always wondered about that, too. But then,_ _ **she**_ _was head cheerleader and_ _ **he**_ _was top jock. It happens."_

" _Those types of marriages seldom turn out to be happily-ever-after, though," Darla commented._

" _That's entirely too true." I sat back in my seat. "So, what_ _ **do**_ _you want to drink, then?"_

" _I'll start with my handy glass of water and have lemonade with the meal."_

" _Lemonade? –again?"_

 _She nodded. "I love lemonade—regular or pink . . . doesn't matter; as long as it's not too sour."_

" _Well, then, I guess I'll have a Dr. Pepper. It's not much fun drinking alone."_

" _What made_ _ **you**_ _start drinking, Jack?"_

" _Are you kidding? It's what defines us as 'guys.' You go out for a beer with the guys after_ _ **work**_ _; you have a brew while watching the_ _ **Big**_ _ **Game**_ _with the guys. And, when you're in the military, going to the local pub for a cold one is a ritual." I shrugged. "I guess I could stop. . . I mean, my life is gonna be a whole lot different after you and I are married: I won't be 'hanging out with the guys' as much."_

" _You don't have to stop drinking_ completely _. . . I mean, not on_ _ **my**_ _account."_

" _It's no big deal. I've always been a social drinker. I drink to be sociable; and, when it's a blazing-hot summer day, sometimes a nice, cold beer just . . . hits the spot . . ."_

 _She sighed. "Do you think maybe you could cultivate a taste for lemonade? -or maybe even iced tea? I really_ _ **hate**_ _the smell of beer. . . I know it's the yeast. We grew yeast cultures in biology class back in high school, and it smelled just like beer." She shook her head. "I think it's disgusting. I don't know how people can even get it past their noses, let alone drink it!"_

" _It's an acquired taste. So, if you can't stand the smell, I won't drink beer unless you're out of town, visiting your kids or your parents or . . . whatever; and I won't keep any in the house, so I won't be tempted to drink it when you_ _ **are**_ _home . . . and I won't have more than two—" I held up two fingers, "—when I_ _ **do**_ _go out to a bar to have a beer. I promise." I crossed my heart and then held up my hand in the traditional oath-taking position._

" _I trust you, Jack. You haven't survived in the military this long by being foolish."_

 _Our waiter arrived then and placed a basket of hot, fresh dinner rolls and a saucer containing a cube of butter on the table. He then proceeded to ask if we were ready to order._

 _Having been taught well, I ordered for Darla first. "The lady will have the petite sirloin, cooked_ _ **medium**_ _(i.e., nicely pink and juicy, but not overly so)—no mushrooms—a baked potato with_ _ **butter only**_ _, no sour cream, no chives; and a glass of lemonade—straight, no fruit added."_

" _Regular or sugar-free?"_

 _I shrugged, then guessed. "Regular?"_

 _Darla nodded, smiling. "With a teaspoon of sugar for each four ounces of lemonade."_

 _I repeated that to the waiter, who seemed to think I was the only person at the table worth talking to. Or maybe it was just because I'd taken it upon myself to do the ordering for both of us. It's kind of an old-fashioned thing to do, and a lot of women don't like it. They prefer to order for themselves. I suspect, if Darla had been one of those, the waiter would've addressed her directly about her lemonade; but, since_ _ **I**_ _was doing the ordering,_ _I_ _had to make the_ _ **clarifications**_ _as well. I was glad, though, that Darla wasn't a feminist, even if it meant a little more work for me. I genuinely enjoyed doing things for her._

" _Got it," said the waiter in response to Darla's requests, although he still addressed me. "Regular lemonade . . . straight . . . no fruit . . . three teaspoons of sugar." Looking at me, he explained, "Our glasses hold twelve ounces of beverage."_

 _I nodded. "Good math skills. Thanks."_

 _It was amusing. I was beginning to get used to Darla's finickiness. In a way, it was kind of cute and endearing; could be problematical after a while, though. I mean, I might have to do a little cooking myself now and then if I wanted to eat something Darla didn't like and which, therefore, she didn't know how to make. . .._

 _It was now time for me to place my_ _ **own**_ _order. "I'll have the twelve-ounce New York cut, medium rare, with onion rings, sautéed mushrooms and French fries. A Dr. Pepper to drink, if you have it."_

" _Very good, sir. And would either of you care for a salad?"_

" _Yeah, I'll have a Caesar salad with Thousand Island dressing. Darla prefers Jell-o."_

 _I was impressed. The waiter's eyebrows didn't go up even a smidgen. "What flavor Jell-o would the lady prefer?"_

" _Cherry," I replied confidently._ _ **Lime**_ _was her other choice when it came to Jell-o; I_ _ **knew**_ _that. But, since she was having lemonade, I thought a double dose of citrus might not be a really good idea._

" _Would the lady like whipped cream on her Jell-o?"_

" _Eeww! Gross!"_

" _That would be a 'no,'" I interpreted for the waiter._

 _He picked up the menus and said, "I shall return shortly with your . . . salads." I think it was the fact that Darla was having Jell-o that made him hesitate before saying 'salads', and I could hardly blame him. But, Darla was Darla and she preferred Jell-o. Whatever my lady wanted, my lady would get._

" _Whipped cream on Jell-o. I'm not sure_ _ **I**_ _would've gone for that, either," I admitted, leaning on the table and looking directly at Darla._

" _Whipped cream is . . . disgusting! It has little-to-no flavor and is more fattening than ice cream! Why put it on Jell-o?" She shuddered._

(Enough about Jell-o and whipped cream, already!) _I decided it was time for a change of topic. "So, are your kids spending the night in town?"_

 _She nodded. "They're going home on Saturday."_

" _Who's watching your grandkids while they're gone?"_

" _Their in-laws. They all live in the greater Seattle vicinity, so it's convenient for everybody. And they love having a chance to spend a day or two with their grandkids."_

" _Are they staying because I told them to watch the news tomorrow night?"_

" _Yeah, pretty much. You've piqued their collective interest, I'm afraid, so they're anxious to see what you and Mac have planned for your father." She leaned forward with her elbows on the table. "I really do wish you'd tell_ _ **me**_ _what you're up to, Jack." She was doing her best to be beguiling, but I had already steeled myself against it._

" _Not gonna happen, D.J.," I said. "But, I_ _ **will**_ _tell you about something_ _ **else**_ _that's happening . . . in regards to my impending trip back to D.C. . .."_

" _What is it?" She sat up straight then, all ears, as it were._

" _I'm going to turn in my resignation—from both the Navy and Homeland. Once they accept my resignation and let me go, I'll be packing up my stuff and coming back here . . . unless, of course, there's somewhere else you'd rather live than Denver."_

" _Actually, Jack, I don't want to remain here any longer than is absolutely necessary. . . I have to admit, I haven't missed the_ _ **winters**_ _here one little bit."_

" _Do you wanna go back to Shiloh Heights? I can do small-town life . . . I think. I never have before, but that doesn't mean I couldn't learn . . ."_

 _She smiled and asked, "Have you thought about what you're going to do for a living after you leave Homeland and the Navy? That might help us determine where we should live."_

 _I took hold of her hand and said, "That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. I don't really_ **need** _, need a job. I've been single for more than twenty years and earning an officer's salary the entire time—which has been steadily increasing, due to promotions and cost-of-living raises. . . I have at least four separate retirement accounts, three savings CDs (all with different renewal dates), a standard passbook savings account with at least a hundred grand in it, and more than five grand in my checking account. I could retire any time and be set for life. I only want to work because I'm not_ _ **ready**_ _yet to be idle. I need to_ _ **do**_ _something."_

" _You're . . . well off, Jack?"_

 _I tipped my head back and forth, from side to side. "Pretty much; but, most of my assets aren't readily accessible . . ._ _ **yet**_ _. Still, we could easily live off of what's in the passbook account for some time; and, I could close out each of the CDs in turn when their renewal dates come around. . . I guess, maybe, I'm . . . comfortably secure."_

" _It took the insurance company_ _**six**_ _ **months**_ _to pay off on Frank's death benefits," Darla told me. "As difficult as it was, I kept working and lived mostly off of our savings until the insurance finally came through. It was aggravating."_

" _Yeah, I know. Insurance companies are always anxious to_ _ **take**_ _your money, but they're kind of reluctant to give any of it back. Dad had the same problem when Mom died; but, at least he had a good-paying career to keep him going."_

" _So, back to my original question, Jack: Have you thought about what you want to do once you leave Homeland and the Navy? Any ideas?"_

" _Well, I've had several. I'm just not sure if any of 'em would be . . . viable . . . realistic, you know?"_

" _Like what?"_

 _The waiter arrived with my salad and Darla's Jell-o then, so I waited until he placed the dishes on the table, thanked him, and then picked up my salad fork and dug in._

" _I've thought about going back to flying," I mumbled as I chewed._

" _Commercially?"_

" _Sort of. I'm not thinking of becoming an airline pilot or anything. I'm too old for that. There_ _ **are**_ _airline pilots my age, I expect; but they're veterans—men who've been flying the jumbo jets for more than twenty years—not something I'd wanna come into cold at my age. . . I was thinking more along the lines of hiring myself out as a private pilot for some rich dude who has his own plane. If he's affable, I might even be able to persuade him to let you come along when we fly to far away, exotic places, like . . . New Orleans."_

" _I thought you'd already been to New Orleans."_

" _Yeah, but_ _ **you**_ _haven't. . . and it's pretty exotic, let me tell you."_

 _She smiled. "From what I've heard, I expect it is. That might be kind of fun—_ _ **if**_ _you could find such a magnanimous employer. I'd_ _ **love**_ _flying with you, although it'd be more fun if I could sit in the cockpit with you. But, I know that could never happen. . .." She sighed._

" _Don't say 'never.' It's bad luck. Anyway, one of my other thoughts was going to work at an already-established flight school. I could easily teach people to fly. I did it for years in the Navy. Once I prove I can fly just about anything, I should be able to get certified as an instructor in a matter of days."_

" _And you wouldn't have to do much of the actual flying, so if your reflexes begin to slow down as you get older—"_

" _Hey! Don't even_ _ **go**_ _there! Instructors_ _ **always**_ _have to be prepared to take over if the student loses it or makes a really serious blunder; so, I've still gotta have good reflexes. I could as easily have a heart attack or something while out there in the wild blue yonder as lose my reflexes . . . ." I paused then and thought about the things the two of us had just said. "Maybe I should rethink the whole flying thing and keep my feet on the ground from now on—except when I'm a passenger."_

" _You have your own plane, don't you, Jack?"_

" _Two, actually: a prop and a small jet. But—"_

" _So, you wouldn't quit flying them for your own recreation would you?"_

" _Well, no, not right away. I've been grounded ever since I went to work at Homeland: my planes are berthed here, in Denver. I've moved around so much throughout my career that it only made sense to keep my planes here at home. I've come back here and flown one or the other of them whenever I've been on leave. But, as I say, it's been a few years."_

" _You've never had a vacation, in all the time you've worked at Homeland?"_

" _Only short ones—not long enough to make it worthwhile to come all the way back here, just to take a plane up for a couple of hours."_

" _You still have family here to visit, you know," she scolded me._

" _Yeah, well . . . ever since Mom died, it's been kinda hard, seeing Dad all by himself."_

" _Too painful to watch?"_

" _Yeah."_

" _I think I understand. If I were twenty years older, my kids would probably feel the same way about coming to see me, now that their dad's gone. It's not easy to go home for a visit and see only one parent where you're used to seeing two. But, fortunately for me, my kids have stepped up to the plate and been there for me—big time."_

" _You're making me feel guilty."_

" _Good. You deserve to. Your dad's a good man. Yes, he puts his nose into other people's business a bit too much. But, without your mom around, what else does he have to do, except go camping and stuff with his buddies . . . and how much of_ _ **that**_ _can a man take?. . . As much as he'd like to continue running the paper, he can't do_ _ **that**_ _anymore, either. He's getting close to eighty now, isn't he?"_

" _Yes, he is. It's amazing he's stayed as_ _ **strong**_ _as he has for as_ _ **long**_ _as he has." I let out a heavy sigh. "I am such a . . . jerk."_

" _No, you're not, Jack. A tad thoughtless, perhaps; but that's normal for a guy."_

" _I don't think I like being a 'guy' anymore. I think it's time_ _ **I**_ _stepped up to the plate and started behaving more like a man should. It's time I grew up and took some responsibility—for something other than the safety of this country. It's time I started doing as much for_ **Dad** _ **now**_ _as he_ _ **used**_ _to do for_ **me** _."_

 _I dropped my salad fork onto my empty plate and took out my cellphone. "I gotta call Mac."_

 _She smiled. She knew. She knew I was going to fold and undo whatever it was Mac and I had been planning. She'd finally managed to talk me out of it—or at least, got me to talk_ _ **myself**_ _out of it. . . Would I regret it tomorrow? Nah. I'd tell Dad what the plan had been and then tell him why I changed my mind. And do you know what? I figured he'd be proud of me for choosing not to be petty._

 _He did the right thing, bringing Darla back into my life. She was exactly what I needed to teach me_ _how_ _to be the man I was_ _ **supposed**_ _to be . . . the man that both she and Mom had always hoped and prayed I would be. It was past time for me to grow up._

 **(*****)**

"What the—?" I looked at my cellphone and scowled. "Jack? He's having dinner with Darla! What's he calling me for?—and _now_ of all times?"

"You won't know unless you answer it," Jamie pointed out.

"Yeah, Jack. Whazzup?"

"I'm calling it off, Mac—the raid, I mean. I can't do it to Dad. He's just an old man who wants his family intact, nothing more; we shouldn't punish him for that. Just let him have his weekend in the woods with his buddies. He'll probably be more surprised by that than he would be if we punished him."

"You're sure?" I asked.

I heard Jack sigh. "Yeah, I'm sure."

I smiled. "Darla got to you, didn't she?"

"Could be . . ."

"You wuss!"

"No, Mac, I am not a wuss. For the first time in ages I feel like I'm really doing the right thing. Dad's getting on in years, bro. It's time we started paying more attention to _**him**_ and _**his**_ needs instead of thinking about nothing but our own. Mom's not around to take care of him anymore. It's our turn to do for _**him**_ what he always did for _**us**_."

It was my turn to sigh. "Yeah, I guess you're right. It would've been so much _**fun**_ though . . ."

"Maybe, but . . . that kind of fun—at the expense of a bunch of old men—isn't the kind of activity grown men should engage in. Darla kinda hinted at that, and I realized she's right. I'm tired of being a 'guy,' Mac. I'm ready to be a husband again . . . and a dutiful son to my aging father. What about you?"

"I'm on board, Jack; I'm on board. I'll still take the map up to Shaun, though, so he can post it on the wall of the store. . . But, won't he be disappointed when he finds out there won't be any fireworks?"

"Probably. I'll talk to him later—tell him I'll compensate him for some of the stuff Dad and Uncle George bartered him out of on the cheap."

"They didn't!"

"Oh, yeah. He didn't stand a chance. _**He**_ wants a little revenge, too. He thought the light show would be highly satisfying."

"I'm sure it would've been. . . Jack, are you absolutely certain you wanna back down?"

"Yes, Mac, I am. Gotta go; main course is arriving. I'll talk to you later tonight after we both get home."

I closed my phone and put it back in my pocket.

"What was that all about?" Jamie asked.

I told her.

"You were planning to have a gang of troops raid your father's camp and arrest him and your uncle and all their friends?! Mac, that's . . . that's just plain _**cruel**_! No wonder Aunt Darla talked Jack out of it! If I'd known what you were up to, I'd've tried to talk _**you**_ out of it, too!"

I shook my head. "Darla didn't know; she only knew we were planning revenge of some kind. . . She's _**darned**_ good to be able to talk Jack out of doing something we've spent the last two days planning and preparing to execute, especially since he put so much work into it himself today!" I shook my head again. "I can't believe he folded. But, he thinks it's time we grew up."

"And you don't?"

The look on her face and the tone of her voice told me that this was dangerous ground. I'd better watch my step . . . and my tongue. "It's not _**that**_ . . . I mean, yeah, of course we need to grow up. Everybody does at some point. I just wish it could've been _**after**_ the denouement."

"You really wanted to see your father and your uncle and all those old men publicly humiliated? Then maybe, instead of moving home to Denver, you should just go back to L.A. and pull the wool over the eyes of some more environmentalists!"

She popped out of her chair, threw down her napkin, and stormed into the kitchen. It had swinging, saloon-style doors. It would have been easy enough to crash through them, but I chose to pretend they were a regular door and stopped outside to talk to her.

"Jamie . . . Jamie! I guess there's nothing I can say that'll change your opinion about me now. You've obviously made up your mind that I'm a jerk; I guess I am. I _**must**_ be if someone like _**you**_ thinks so. It's been a long time since I've been judged so . . . _**harshly**_ by anyone . . . except Jack, and he doesn't count. He and I are just too different to ever see eye-to-eye. The only thing we agreed on was that Dad was out of line and needed to be taught a lesson. Now Jack's changed his mind and gone all noble because of Darla." I mentally cursed myself. "Aargh!" I growled. "Now I'm sounding like a jerk again! . ..

"Jamie, the reason I wanted to see you tonight was to ask you how you'd feel if I stopped working for the government when I move back here. You _**know**_ I like you—a lot; and I really do wanna move back here and keep seeing you. After this fiasco, though, I'll understand if you really want me to go back to L.A. and never darken your door again; but, please, just hear me out. . ..

"I guess I just got too caught up in the whole revenge thing and couldn't see past it to the bigger picture and what it would really mean to Dad and all those other old men up there with him. Dad has always been . . . _**Dad**_ , ya know? I never really stopped to think about the fact that he's gonna be eighty on his next birthday. Do you know how _old_ that is?—how old it _sounds?_ I can't even wrap my mind around it. Giving in . . . giving up . . . deciding not to have the camp raided . . . that was an extremely grown-up and mature decision for Jack to make. But he'd've never made it without Darla. . ..

"What I'm trying to say is, since I've had time to think about it, I know he's right . . . _**she's**_ right. We should cut Dad some slack. He's been alone for fifteen years now; not much to do but run the paper and go huntin' and fishin' with his buds. And he sees the two of us, wasting our lives away, doing noble work, but living alone. My guess is that he doesn't want us to wind up lonely like he is . . . not that that's his fault. Mom died; it happens. And he never found anyone special enough to replace her.

"But Jack . . . Jack loves Darla more than anything in the world right now, and I _**know**_ they'll be happy together. And, dang it!—I'd like to have a little bit of that kind of love and happiness in my life, too. That's why I've been planning to move back here to Denver: so we can continue seeing each other. You _**know**_ that. We talked about it the other day. If I've ruined any chance I might've had with you because of this whole revenge thing, then I'm truly sorry. The last thing I wanted to do is alienate you."

She came back through the doors with tears shining in her eyes. "I was _**so happy**_ when I realized that you like me well enough to consider moving back here. I couldn't _**ask**_ you to change your whole life just to continue going out with me—that would've been too presumptuous. But, when you made the suggestion yourself, I jumped at it." She smiled. "I'm thinking that maybe _**I**_ can have as much influence for good on _**you**_ as _**Aunt Darla's**_ had on _**Jack**_."

I smiled back at her. "You already have, Jamie; you already have." I stretched out my arm, inviting her to return to the table. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and share a warm moment, but we hadn't gotten that far in our relationship yet. We had come to an understanding, though, and that was a really, really _**good**_ thing.

I opted not to pursue the topic of my leaving government service. What would be the point? Until and unless the time came when it would be relevant—if and when security people thought it wise to start scrutinizing me and/or Jamie because we were both government employees and dating each other—we could deal with it _**then**_ . . . together.

In the meantime (I decided), when Jack went back to D.C. to turn in his resignation, I was going to turn mine in, too. I, of course, only had to report to my immediate superior back in L.A. But, I knew he wouldn't be happy; neither would his superiors. It was, however, my life; and I'd taken an oath that would keep me from revealing anything I knew to any unauthorized personnel. That, at least, should mollify them to some degree.

By this time, though, I was no longer of the opinion that Dad, Jack and Jamie were unauthorized. Who has more of a right to know what you're up to than those you love and trust most and who love and trust you in return? I wouldn't tell _**Jamie**_ everything—not right away . . . maybe later, after we were engaged. . . . Wow! Did I really think that? Yeah, I did. Maybe my feelings for her were stronger than I'd thought. I'd better watch myself, or I could end up getting hurt. . ..


	20. Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

 _Dinner was delicious, as I hoped it would be. I didn't want my last gift to Darla before leaving town to be mediocre. Tonight needed to be special—and it was. . . ._

 _After much discussion, weighing the pros and cons of various possible jobs I could work at (aside from flying), Darla came up with a really novel idea—literally. She suggested that I write stories about my adventures as a naval aviator. "You can either make them stories of exactly what happened, or fictionalize them and create a character with a_ _ **different**_ _name who will, in a sense, be a stand-in for you."_

" _I don't know," I said doubtfully. "I've never been all that good with words. I can barely even write a coherent mission report."_

" _I could help you, you know. I am a writer, after all. Who better to help you tell a true-to-life war story than a journalist?"_

" _They're not all war stories, D. I did get involved in some rescue missions and humanitarian efforts from time to time."_

" _All the better. People like a well-rounded hero."_

" _Hero? Me? Uh-uh." I shook my head._

" _The best and truest heroes are those who don't see themselves as one. That's you, Jack. You've always been much more heroic than you've ever given yourself credit for."_

" _I know I've always been one in_ _ **your**_ _eyes, anyway." I sighed. "I suppose, if I did fictionalize it a little bit, it might not be so bad. . . How would we actually go about writing these fact-based fairy tales, anyway?"_

" _Well, I suppose we could start with you telling me a really good story from your early career. (If we're going to write a series of books—or even just short stories—we should get them in as close to chronological order as possible.) It might be easiest if you dictated it onto a tape; then I could play it back and work it into a first-person narrative prose. . .._

" _I think the main character should be newly-retired and looking back on his naval career with some melancholy . . . remembering both the good and the bad times in equal measure."_

" _Nothing about his personal life?" I asked._

" _That's up to you, Jack. I know how painful_ _ **your**_ _personal life has been. If you don't wanna get into the_ _ **character's**_ _personal life, don't. Our protagonist could be a man who was so completely dedicated to his career that he never_ _ **had**_ _much of a personal life. He doesn't have to be exactly like you. If you prefer, your military experiences could be the only fact-based element in the stories we write."_

" _Hey, I kinda like that idea. That way, I could embellish them and/or change them up a bit. The protagonist could have issues I don't have. . . We could really have some fun with this!"_

" _That's the spirit, Jack! That's pretty much what I had in mind when I suggested fictionalization. The adventures our protagonist relates will be_ _ **based**_ _on your experiences. They don't have to be 'gospel truth.' We can embellish as much as you want—as long as the embellishments don't make the tales so far removed from what the situation was_ _ **really**_ _like that any military types who may have had similar experiences would read one and say, 'What the—? Afghanistan was never like that!'"_

 _I nodded. "I see what you mean. Accuracy in time, place and circumstance is important, even if the details of the experience itself aren't."_

" _Exactly. Say . . . after bailing out of a plane (not that I know whether you ever did or not, but just for the sake of illustration we'll say you did), you found a teenaged boy wandering aimlessly in the desert, shell shocked, dazed . . . tired, hungry, thirsty. . . You gave him water, a few rations, patched up any wounds he might've had and helped him find his way home, which, incidentally, got_ _ **you**_ _to the nearest town, too. In the fictionalized account, you could make it a little girl, six or seven years old, dragging a ragged old doll behind her and crying her eyes out because her village had just been bombed. . . Something like that."_

" _Oh, you're gonna be good at this!" I told Darla._

" _The stories will be yours, Jack," she reminded me. "And I think the_ _ **narration**_ _should be yours, too. . . Picture a grizzled old navy pilot, sitting in a swivel chair behind his mahogany (or oak) desk in his den at home, a bottle of twelve-year-old scotch and a glass in front of him. . . For the first time in almost forty years there's no place he needs to be and nothing he needs to do. So, he stares at the scotch, pours some into the glass and downs it. Then, as he unconsciously begins reminiscing about the career that has just come to a sudden and ignominious end, the memories start to come . . . one right after the other. He has no choice but to put them down on paper (or type them up on his computer, or whatever). It simply_ _ **has**_ _to be done. The stories have to be written because he can't rest until he relates every one of them."_

" _D., you should've been a novelist instead of a journalist. You really know this stuff."_

" _I watch a lot of TV and movies, Jack. I don't_ _ **know**_ _anything. I just know how to write, is all."_

" _You paint a vivid picture with words, I'll give you that—even just vocalizing. You're good, D.;_ _ **real**_ _good."_

 _She smiled. "Thanks, Jack; but don't forget: this is going to be a collaboration—_ _ **your**_ _stories,_ _ **my**_ _writing skills. Together, we'll be a smash!"_

" _I believe you, Deej. . . So," I said, holding up my glass of Dr. Pepper in a toast, "here's to 'The Adventures of Admiral . . . Daniel T. Carter, USN'."_

 _We'd pretty much finished eating by this time, and I was feeling energetic enough to do a little bit of dancing. The dance floor was a ways away, since we were at a secluded table; but, neither of us minded the walk._

 _The music was being played over the P.A. system; there was no live band or orchestra. But it was good music to dance to. Whoever picked the songs and made the mix knew what they were doing._

 _The song that was playing when Darla and I entered the dance floor was an instrumental rendition of "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes", a great slow-dance tune if there ever was one._

 _I was particularly fond of it because it brought back memories of my very first dance at a friend's eighth birthday party. I'd danced the first dance with a cute little blonde named Nancy. She didn't like me at all, but I didn't care. Mrs. Kennedy, the party hostess, made sure that each girl danced once with each boy. There were four of them and four of us, so we each danced four times. It'd been fun, which was something I hadn't expected. At that young age, I was still more interested in chasing girls for the purpose of_ _ **tormenting**_ _them than I was in wanting to get_ _ **personal**_ _with them in any way. Of course, that was before Darla entered the picture. . .._

 _But now, here I was, about fifty years later, holding Darla in my arms on the dance floor. This time we_ _ **really**_ _danced. No more just moving around in circles to the rhythm of the music._

 _As the song ended—followed almost immediately by another (a waltz this time, though I can't for the life of me remember which)—I asked Darla, "When did you take off your wedding ring? I'm wondering because the indentation in your finger is still pretty deep; and, if you'd been without your ring for a year or more, it would've started to return to some degree of normalcy by now. . . Believe me, I know."_

" _I didn't stop wearing my rings 'til right before I came here, when your dad first called me. Until he mentioned_ _ **you**_ _, it didn't occur to me to take them off; I couldn't bring myself to."_

" _But you wanted me to know—when I saw you—that you were now . . . available."_

 _She nodded. "Yes, exactly. . . Jack, if any other man in the_ _ **world**_ _had hit on me—be it . . . Pierce Brosnan or George Clooney—he would've been rebuffed. I had no interest in meeting or getting involved with anyone else. . ._ _ **You**_ _, Jack Beckham, are the only man in the world who could've gotten me out of my wedding ring and my mourning clothes. Only you, Jack. Only you."_

 _I gazed into her eyes and stated, "Nothing else you could've said would've made me happier than that, Darla. Knowing that you still love me that much—that you would've turned down any other man . . . that means a lot to me." I raised our entwined hands to the vicinity of my lips and kissed hers. "I have so many regrets . . . ." I clasped her hand to my chest again and we continued dancing. I don't think we were even waltzing anymore._

" _Don't, Jack," Darla said, shaking her head at me. "What happened, happened. It's all water under the bridge now. Life took us where it did, and now we've come together again. . . It's like . . . we were walking side by side for years; then our paths diverged and went different directions, going onward as we matured and experienced life, each in our own way. But then your father intervened and brought us both back here. Our love for one another took it from there. I have no regrets, Jack. I'm so grateful for what we had and for what we have ahead of us. When I'm in your arms, I feel like I'm home—_ _ **really**_ _home. And it doesn't matter if we live here or in Washington . . . or the_ _ **other**_ _Washington; or New York, or . . . wherever. As long as we're together, we're home."_

" _Home. That sounds_ _ **so**_ _good._ _ **You**_ _had that;_ _ **I**_ _didn't. You had a family, with four bright kids. And now you've got_ _ **grandkids**_. _That blows my mind; I can't even imagine it. You had a husband who loved you—and you, evidently, loved him. I envy that. . .._

" _If there's one thing I've learned over the past few days, D., it's that_ _ **you**_ _are the only woman I've ever_ _ **truly**_ _loved. You and I, Darla—we're forever. . . I don't know where that's gonna put Frank, but . . . if, in the next life, he wants you back, he's gonna have a fight on his hands."_

 _She was smiling. Then she giggled. "That sounds like the Jack Beckham I know," she said. "It's been a long time since you've offered to fight for me—in any sense of the word."_

" _And you're enjoying it, aren't you?" I was smiling now, too. "C'mon. Let's go pay the check and get out of here. Time to go back to your place for a little passionate necking. And, as a bonus, on the way home I'll tell you all about Operation: Revenge."_

 **(*)**

After dinner, Jamie and I sat on the sofa in her living room and talked. We talked about the first time we met, when she was about three and I was thirteen. Man! Ten years' age difference between us! Ouch! And Jack thought he and Darla had it bad!

(Joan, Darla's older sister, was about 2½ years older than Darla. Like Darla, she had gotten married right out of college and Jamie had come along a year later. At the time of our first meeting, Joan and her husband had come to tell Mr. and Mrs. McIntyre that they were expecting another baby.)

"I vaguely remember this cute older boy walking around the back yard of the house next door," Jamie said with a soft smile.

"You thought I was cute?"

She nodded. "I said 'hi' to you while you were walking around picking up trash that had blown into the yard, so you wouldn't run over it with the lawnmower. You smiled at me and said 'hi' back, and I was a goner. Those dimples of yours are real killers, Mac."

"I remember a cute, chubby little tow-headed girl in bib overalls and a t-shirt, with bare feet and smudges of dirt on her face. At first I thought you were a boy 'cause you're hair was so short and wispy."

"Yeah, it took a while for my hair to grow out and thicken. As for the overalls . . . I was a bit of a tomboy. Mom got tired of me ruining all the little girlie clothes she got for me. The best she could do to identify me as a female was to dress me in little girls' T-shirts—mostly pink ones . . . and I _hated_ pink!"

"What was your color of preference?"

"Black. . . Shiny, leathery, fear-inducing black."

"How very . . . Darth Vader-ish of you."

She laughed. "Actually, I wanted to be Emma Peel."

" _The Avengers_? I thought that was off the air by the time you were born."

"It was, but I saw it when it went into syndication."

"Makes sense. At what age did you decide to follow in the footsteps of the infamous Mrs. Peel?"

"Ten. Up till then, I pretty much wanted to be Jane Goodall. I loved apes."

"You've had a wide range of interests. How'd you end up doing the whole . . . wormhole thing?"

"While watching _The Avengers_ , I got interested in science fiction. Sci-fi took me to other worlds, other star systems, other galaxies. I thought it would be fascinating to actually be able to do that—travel to other worlds, like they do in the movies and on TV. The notion of wormholes was presented a time or two during my teenage years—although I don't remember where—and I latched onto it like a dog with a new chew toy. It fascinated me."

"Enough that you decided to pursue it."

"Exactly; and it wasn't an easy decision to make. I mean, it's _so far out there_. Most serious scientists won't even _**discuss**_ it. As fascinating an idea as it is, most of them consider it so totally out of the realm of possibility that they won't even hypothesize about it. . . Well, maybe it _**is**_ impossible right _**now**_ _._ But, I'm hoping to find a way to make it viable. It may not happen in my lifetime, but I'm going to give it my best shot and pass on what I learn to the next generation."

"Isn't that what _all_ scientists do?"

She nodded. "Basically, overall, yes. It's a legacy that each generation builds on. Sometimes a later generation will discover that an earlier one was completely off-base. Their theories and hypotheses were a bunch of rubbish. Someday someone may say that about _my_ work." She shook her head. "That doesn't matter. I'm doing what I'm doing in the here and now, hoping to benefit the world in the future. That's all I can focus on. If I start letting other people's opinions affect me, I'll lose focus and won't accomplish anything."

"Stick with it, kid. You're a brilliant woman. If there's a way, you'll either find it, or get close enough to it that the next generation will be able to complete what you started."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. It means a lot."

"Jamie?"

"Yes, Mac?"

"Would it be out of line if I were to . . . _kiss_ you right about now? I've been staring at your lips for over two hours, and they're really . . . getting to me."

"I think maybe a kiss or two might be okay."

Famous last words . . .


	21. Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

 _So, Mac and Jamie were necking at about the same time that Darla and I were. Fine and dandy, except that_ _ **someone**_ _was supposed to take the map up to Shaun's place._

 _My cellphone rang. "What the—?" I stopped kissing Darla, grabbed my phone and answered it. "Hello? Shaun? What . . . ?" I sighed. "Yes, I'll call him. There's no telling_ _ **what**_ _he's up to . . . But before I call Mac, there's something I need to tell you . . . Just calm down and listen! My brother and I have decided not to call in the cavalry. . . No, we didn't chicken out. We just decided . . . they're a bunch of old geezers. What'd be the point?" Shaun was ranting. I couldn't believe it! I was beginning to understand how Darla had felt when she was trying to talk_ _ **me**_ _out of it._

" _Okay, fine, Shaun, fine. If_ _ **you**_ _wanna be the one to call in the Feds and give all those old men a heart attack, be my guest. But I promise you, if anything goes wrong, you're gonna roast for it, buddy! I'll personally throw you to the dogs! . . . Yeah? Same to you!"_

 _I slammed the phone shut and glowered. I could feel my brow furrowing—deep,_ _ **nasty**_ _furrows. I wanted to swear a blue streak, but I wouldn't do it in front of Darla._

" _So, O'Shaughnessy is going to go through with Operation: Revenge on his own?" she asked me. Darla, I was discovering, was very intuitive and alert._

" _How'd you guess?" I asked caustically, not meaning any offense to Darla's question. I was just madder 'n a decrepit old lion that's had its prey stolen by a pack of hyenas. "Maybe I should've let_ _ **you**_ _talk to him," I said. "Maybe you could've talked_ _ **him**_ _out of it like you did_ _ **me**_ _."_

 _She shook her head. "It was all I could do to talk_ _ **you**_ _out of it, Jack. I only succeeded because Pete and George are your family and they love you. As such, they deserve to be treated better than that. All I had to do was remind you of that fact. Shaun_ _ **isn't**_ _family, and he's pretty miffed at them right now."_

" _ **And**_ _he was looking forward to seeing them get what he thinks they deserve."_

" _You were, too, at first."_

" _Yeah, I was. But, the more I thought about it, the more I realized it's_ _ **not**_ _a good idea. They're a bunch of old men. I wouldn't wanna be responsible for giving any of them apoplexy."_

" _Well then, as I see it, you have three options available to you . . . no, make that four."_

 _I raised my eyebrows. "Four? Really?"_

 _Darla nodded. "The first is to go up to Bear Log Hollow and warn your dad and your uncle. . . Tell them the original plan, why you had a change of heart (feel free to mention me, if you do), and_ _ **why**_ _Shaun O'Shaughnessy is determined to go through with it whether you and Mac are involved or not."_

" _Option number two?" I wasn't averse to option number one, but I_ _ **did**_ _want to hear the rest . . . just in case._

" _Contact whichever group or agency you think Shaun's going to use and warn them that they're about to get a prank call about some terrorists. Let them know that it's only a bunch of old men having a campout."_

" _Shaun knows I was planning to call Homeland Security. Something tells me he'll opt to contact someone else . . . just because. I have no way of knowing who. I could call all of them, I guess, just to be on the safe side; but that could take hours and would be problematical. All the groups that Shaun_ _ **doesn't**_ _call might think that_ _ **I'm**_ _the prankster."_

" _True. . . Okay. Third option: cancel the gathering altogether."_

" _What? Send out more telegrams? That'd cost a fortune!"_

" _If you remember the names of all the men you sent the telegrams to, you and Mac could just phone them and tell them it's off. . ."_

" _We could, but . . . why spoil their fun? How often do octogenarians get an opportunity like this?" I shook my head. "No, calling it off isn't the answer."_

 _Darla sighed. "Okay, then. Option number four: move the festivities to a different location. It would still require your going up and telling your father and your uncle everything, but they wouldn't have to just sit there and wait for the Feds to show up. They could move to a different campground and leave a map (or some other kind of directions) at Bear Log Hollow for the rest of the guys to follow. If you weren't planning to call Homeland 'til after they'd had an hour to settle in, I doubt Shaun will, either. It's a practical idea, because it pretty much guarantees that all twenty of them will be there by the time the raid goes down. If anyone_ _ **is**_ _late arriving,_ _ **they**_ _might get surprised by some troops, but I don't think it'd take long for the raiders to realize that they've been had."_

 _I sighed. "I think I'll go with option number one and leave it up to Dad and Uncle George to decide whether or not they want to move their encampment—and the gathering—to a new location. Something tells me they won't. You know how feisty those two can be."_

 _Darla nodded. "I do, indeed!"_

" _Question now is: do we still take the map up there to Shaun?"_

" _You said he was planning to go and watch when the raid went down. That must mean he knows where Bear Log Hollow is . . . unless he just figured he'd find out from the map himself . . ."_

" _He knows where it is," I said, nodding. "He was just a kid—doing odd jobs at the Outpost for his old man—when Dad and I first went there and gave the place its name. But, we went back there a few times after that, so Shaun and his dad both came to know what place we were referring to. . . Oh, yeah, he knows where it is, all right."_

" _So, if Mac doesn't take the map up to him, do you think he'll post one of his own?"_

" _No doubt. He sells maps of Pike at the Outpost. He's an experienced woodsman and knows how to read a trail map. I'm sure he can manage an 'X marks the spot.'"_

" _You haven't called Mac yet. He may've suddenly remembered and—"_

" _Crap!" I flipped my cellphone open again and called my brother._

 _It took three rings for him to answer. "Jack? What's . . . Oh, crap! I'm supposed to be taking the map up to Shaun's place right now! Jack, I'm sor—"_

" _Can it, bro. Shaun's decided to follow through with the plan on his own."_

" _What?!"_

" _Don't take him the map, Mac, for any reason. He has plenty at the Outpost. He can get one, mark it and post it himself. If he really wants this thing to go down as planned, he'll do just that. I'm going up to Bear Log Hollow tomorrow morning to let Dad and Uncle George know what's going on. I'll even show them the phony packet I created. They should get a kick out of that. Once they know what they're in for, they can decide for themselves if they wanna hang around and wait for the Feds to show up or move the campout to a new location. I just wanna make a clean breast of things and try to keep twenty old men from having a heart attack."_

 _Mac let out a sigh of relief. "You know, I hadn't even thought about that: that some of those guys could be so surprised by the raid that they'd have a heart attack or a stroke or something. . . Man! What_ _ **were**_ _we thinking?"_

" _We weren't; that's just the problem. Dad's not as young as he used to be, and neither of us has been around him enough in recent years to notice. Numbers don't tell everything about a person. Some men are strong and spry at eighty. Others are worn out, sickly and downright decrepit. . . Now, I firmly believe that Dad is in the_ _ **former**_ _category. Nonetheless, we should have respect for his age and treat him better than we have. There's no telling how much longer he's gonna be around. Even seemingly healthy people have been known to drop dead suddenly from a heart attack."_

" _I know; I know—you got through to me earlier; Jamie put in her two cents' worth, too. I was (and still am) behind you on calling off the raid. But, if_ _ **Shaun's**_ _determined to go through with it, then you're right: the least we can do is warn Dad and Uncle George." He sighed. "I guess we oughta go up right after breakfast and—"_

" _I say we go up_ _ **for**_ _breakfast. When was the last time you ate breakfast over an open campfire? I know it's been a long time for_ _ **me**_ _. . ."_

" _But, we'd have to get up at the crack of dawn! You know how those two are!"_

" _So, we lose a little sleep. Big deal! Haven't you ever gotten up at the crack of dawn to try and stop bulldozers from plowing under something you and your friends were trying to protect?"_

" _Well, yeah; but that was my job."_

" _Being a good son is_ _ **also**_ _your job. . . But, hey, if you don't wanna get up that early, I'll just set Dad's alarm clock and head up there myself. If I'm not back by the time you're up, you can get in your Jeep and join us. It'll give us a chance to do some serious bonding with our old man."_

" _You really know how to lay a guilt trip on a guy, you know that?"_

" _I've been taking lessons from Darla. . . See you later, bro. And don't keep Jamie up too late, either. She has a job to go to tomorrow, you know."_

" _Same to you!"_

" _Good night, Mac. Tell Jamie I said hi."_

 _I closed my phone and slipped it into my pocket, a softly satisfied smile on my face. "You know what, D.? I feel better now than I have in a long time—_ _ **inside**_ _, I mean. . . It's been ages since I've done anything that made me feel like a truly worthwhile person—and not just somebody's idea of a war hero."_

" _I can't believe that, Jack. You honestly mean to tell me that you've never helped an old person across the street? You've never picked up and returned something that someone has dropped? You've never smiled at someone who was looking down, depressed, or worried and seen them lighten up a little at the sight of your warm, friendly smile?"_

" _Well, when you put it that, way, yeah. But those are just_ _ **little**_ _things, hardly worth mentioning."_

" _Even_ _ **little**_ _things matter to the people you're helping. And it_ _ **does**_ _feel good to do nice things for people. That warm glow can make the whole 'helping others' thing become a habit."_

" _After we're married, maybe you and I can find other little acts of . . . kindness or charity or . . . whatever . . . that we can do together—between stories, of course."_

 _She smiled. "Of course. But now, if you intend to get up and go to Bear Log Hollow at the crack of dawn, you'd better go home and get some sleep."_

" _Yeah, I know," I said with a sigh. "But . . . could I have maybe . . . five more minutes? We kinda got interrupted . . ."_

" _Okay. Five more minutes," Darla agreed. I set the alarm on my wristwatch to go off in exactly five minutes. Darla then turned her face toward me and I began kissing her again._

 _By the time the alarm went off, most of Darla's makeup was gone, her hair was a mess, and her dress was a bit rumpled, but she didn't seem to care. She just gazed into my eyes with that love light I'd come to know so well and smiled that soft, warm smile. After we said our final good nights, I left—filled with a warm, fuzzy glow . . . very uncharacteristic for me._

 _Young people think that older folks can't possibly fall in love the way_ _ **they**_ _do—that love is only for the young. They couldn't be more wrong. The longer you live and the more of life you experience—if you're not embittered by it—the more capacity for love you develop, so you start to understand the_ _ **need**_ _for love in your life. And, if you've been alone for a while and you're fortunate enough to find someone you can connect with in your later years (i.e., over age fifty), it's a_ _ **blessing**_ _, if not an outright miracle._

 _I was beginning to realize that there'd been a lot of miracles in my life. For instance, I'd been spared numerous times while involved in aerial combat. There were so_ _many_ _times I could've—maybe even_ _ **should've**_ _—been killed . . . but I wasn't._

 _On some level, I guess I'd always believed in God—in His existence. But finding Darla again and discovering how much we genuinely love each other (and always had) made me a_ _ **true**_ _believer—in God and in miracles._

 _Darla was my miracle. Just as I had always been her hero and the center of her world, she was now the center of mine. I knew now—in the depth of my heart and soul—that my life had been spared all those times for_ _**her**_ _sake, not for my own. I wasn't even worthy to be called a_ _ **humanitarian**_ _, let alone a_ _ **Christian**_ _, even though I'd been raised in a strongly Protestant family._

 _God had His own timetable and had planned all along to call Frank home. Furthermore, being omniscient, He knew Darla wouldn't do well alone. She would need looking after: protection, love and caring. And Darla herself had said that I was the only man in the world that she would ever respond to. God had known that, too._

 _As I started the Cherokee's engine and slipped it into gear, I whispered a prayer of gratitude and thanksgiving. I hadn't done that since the last time I'd been shot down in a war zone and survived._ _ **God had saved me for Darla.**_ _It was a sobering realization. Her heart—and her life—were in my hands. It was time to step up to the plate and be the man she'd always believed in—the man she_ _ **needed**_ _me to be. Tomorrow morning, at Bear Log Hollow, I would begin._


	22. Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

 _I set Dad's digital alarm clock for five-thirty._

 _The clock had four different alarm options. I had no great love for any of them, but I decided to go with the crowing rooster. I hate being_ _ **shocked**_ _awake; and if I chose to be awakened by the radio, I'd have to be careful picking a station to set it on. Rock 'n' roll would be as hard on my nerves as a buzzer or a bell would be;_ _ **soft**_ _music would pass right through me. So, I opted for the cock-crow. At least it had the advantage of being . . . novel._

 _I was not, however, as prepared for the cock crow as I would've liked; nor was I as ready to get up at the crack of dawn as I'd hoped. I located and pressed the bar that was the "snooze alarm", knowing that it would go off again in ten minutes; but I needed a little time to turn on the table lamp and locate the "off" switch. That done, I rolled slowly out of bed, nearly falling on my kiester in the process, as I misjudged how close I was to the edge of the mattress._

" _Oh, boy," I moaned. "Maybe Mac was right: maybe we should go up_ _after_ _breakfast."_

 _I mulled it over as I sat on the edge of the bed, looking in the direction of the window and seeing just a hint of sunlight beginning to appear around the edges of the Venetian blinds. Remembering how glib and superior my attitude toward Mac had been the night before, I sighed, shrugged and got to my feet. "Okay, okay," I told my conscience; then I muttered, "I'm coming, Dad. Save a trout for me."_

 _I took a slightly warm shower—cool enough to wake me up, but not cold enough to shock my system. Then I shaved and dressed in one of the new pairs of jeans I'd bought and the "Flyboys" t-shirt. I thought Dad and Uncle George would get a kick out of that one._

 _By the time I reached Bear Log Hollow, it was a quarter to seven. I parked the Cherokee on the other side of the Land Rover so that Dad and Uncle George couldn't see it. They were, as I'd expected, sitting around the breakfast campfire, drinking hot coffee and frying freshly-caught trout._

" _Hello the camp!" I called out, as I'd seen cowboys do in many a Western._

" _Jack?!" my father called out in mild surprise; then he and Uncle George both got to their feet. "How . . .?. . . What . . .?"_

 _I smiled. "Sit down and pour me a cup of that coffee—if you've got another cup. I got up at five so I could get here in time for breakfast. I need a little caffeine to wake me up."_

" _Oh, we have another cup or two," said Uncle George as he filled one for me. "It's a set of six. We didn't want to break it up."_

 _I walked over to him and took the cup from his hand. "Thanks! Mm! Nothing like a cup of hot coffee on a cold mountain morning!"_

" _Jack, what are you doing here?" my father asked._

" _You're not surprised that I found you?"_

" _Of course not! I knew Mac'd figure the puzzle out quickly enough. I just wasn't sure how long it'd take you to decide to pay us a visit—if you chose to do it all. To tell you the truth, I didn't know_ _ **what**_ _to expect . . . except maybe some nasty repercussions for interfering in your lives. So, talk!"_

 _I nodded, walked over to the tree, reached up and removed the plastic bag from the hole. "I think this might give you a clue," I said, returning to the fire and handing the packet to Dad._

" _You_ _ **were**_ _here!" he said in awe. "So, you got my letter."_

" _Yep. Got it, read it. Replaced it with this."_

" _What the—? Jack, did_ _ **you**_ _do this?"_

" _Yep. Mac showed me how to cut-and-paste, and I put it together."_

" _What exactly were you planning to do with this?" Uncle George asked, looking at the photos and documents over Dad's shoulder._

" _Isn't it obvious, George?" said Dad. "The boys were going to call in the Marines or somebody, report that there was a nest of terrorists camped out up here, and tell them about this 'evidence' hidden in the tree." He was smiling. "Isn't that right, Jack?" He actually looked proud that we'd come up with such a scheme._

" _Well, that's a big_ _ **part**_ _of it . . ." I replied, giving him my own version of the cat-that-swallowed-the-canary look._

" _You mean, there was more to your plan than that?" Dad asked, amazed._

 _I nodded._

" _Sit down, George . . . you too, Jack," Dad demanded. "I hate it when people hover."_

 _I pulled up a rock and sat down. The fire was blazing hot. I unzipped and removed the windbreaker I was wearing and tied it around my waist, revealing my "Flyboys" T-shirt. Dad and Uncle George were gawking at it. I stood up and turned around to show them the back._

" _Ah," Dad said. "Clever. Has Darla seen it yet?"_

 _I shook my head. "No, and I don't intend to let her see it 'til after we're married."_

 _Oops!_

 _Eyebrows went up and Dad and Uncle George looked at each other. Then they looked back at me. "Married?" Dad queried . . . calmly, I might add. "I'd hoped you two would hit it off, but I didn't expect you to start talking about getting married after only_ _ **four days**_ _, Jack."_

 _I shrugged. "What can I say? We love each other. Darla's the best thing that ever happened to me. I just wish I'd let it happen sooner . . . like thirty-five years ago."_

" _Your mother and I used to wish the same thing," Dad confessed. "Now, tell us about the rest of the plot you and your brother hatched."_

" _Allow me," came Mac's voice from the parking zone._

 _Oh, boy! Now I'd never get a trout!_

" _Here, Jack," said Uncle George, handing me a metal plate. Dad then took the trout out of the skillet with a fork and dropped it onto my plate. "Thanks!" I said. Uncle George then offered me a fork, which I also took._

" _Got enough for one more?" Mac asked as he approached the fire and took a seat on another rock._

" _Maybe," said Dad, "but you're going to have to earn it by telling us the rest of the plot, son."_

 _Mac sighed. "Can I least have a cup of coffee?"_

" _Sure," said Uncle George, pouring him a cup. "Here."_

" _I take—"_

" _Two lumps," said Dad, dropping them into Mac's cup and handing him a spoon._

 _Mac took a cautious sip and smiled. "Perfect!"_

" _Now, about the rest of the plot you two hatched . . ." coached Uncle George._

" _Yeah. Well, we sent telegrams—in your names—to twenty of your hunting and fishing buddies, inviting them to come up here tonight at around seven for a campout-soirée."_

" _The idea," I continued, "was to make it look like there was a whole_ _ **passel**_ _of terrorists camped out up here and not just_ _ **you two**_ _. You'd've all been rounded up and questioned all night and probably into the morning by agents from Homeland Security . . . ."_

 _Mac was smiling wistfully. "It would've been great!" he said; "but_ _ **Darla**_ _talked_ _ **Jack**_ _out of it, and_ _ **he**_ _talked_ _ **me**_ _out of it. . . . So, here we are, telling you about it."_

" _Does that mean there's not going to be a campout-soirée?" Dad asked, disappointed._

" _Oh, the campout's still on. We didn't contact your friends and tell them not to come. We just decided not to call in the troops and raid the party, that's all."_

" _You needn't have bothered to come all the way up here just to tell us that," said Dad. "When our friends turned up for the party, it would've been a heck of a surprise."_

 _Mac and I looked at each other, then at Dad, and Mac said, "There's more to it than that, Dad. Shaun O'Shaughnessy was supposed to post a map on the outside wall of the Outpost—a map that Jack and I labeled for your friends, to help them find this place. But we were a little—" my brother and I looked at each other and then got a bit sheepish, "—_ _ **busy**_ _last night with the ladies," Mac continued, "and forgot to take the map up to Shaun's house."_

" _And it's just as well," I put in. "When I told Shaun the raid was off, he was_ _ **seething**_ _—started raving like a madman. He's determined that the raid's going to go through—with or without our help"_

 _Uncle George looked at Dad and said, "I guess we pushed him a little too far, Pete."_

" _Hah!" said Dad. "He and his father don't know the meaning of an honest dollar! They gouge people for every stinking little thing they sell in that store! Even as cheaply as_ _ **we**_ _got off, the mark-up was still twenty percent above normal retail!"_

" _I always knew their prices were a little high, but—" I ventured_

" _A_ _ **little**_ _high?" said Uncle George. "That family has_ _ **always**_ _been a bunch of highway robbers! Story goes that their ancestor who founded the place left Ireland under a cloud of suspicion. Never heard what he was suspected of, but considering what cutthroat businessmen they are . . . anything's possible."_

" _And Shaun's got it in for you guys because he can't pull one over on you?" Mac asked._

" _Huh," said Dad, "not as much as he'd_ _ **like**_ _to, anyway." He sighed. "So Shaun's going to call in the troops himself, is he?"_

" _Yep," I said. "Darla suggested that you move the campsite and leave instructions for your buddies on how to get to the new location. Of course, I told her you probably wouldn't go for it."_

" _Darned right we won't!" said Dad. "We'll just sit here calmly, drinking coffee, roasting wienies and marshmallows, making s'mores and swapping ghost stories; and we'll invite the troopers to join us if they like. I don't think it'll take them long to realize we're just a bunch of old men on a camping trip and that the call they got was a prank."_

 _I smiled. "I kinda figured you'd do something like that. . . One thing, though: Shaun wants to 'watch the fireworks,' as he put it. He'll probably be hiding close by."_

" _If he is," put in Uncle George, "chances are the troops'll spot_ _ **him**_ _, too—if they surround the entire area in order to avoid letting anyone slip away."_

 _I nodded. "You're probably right about that."_

" _And," said Dad, "if the troopers_ _ **do**_ _pick him up and ask if he belongs to us, I'll tell them flat out that we got it on good authority that_ _ **he**_ _was the one who made the phone call. . . Shaun may end up in the hoosegow_ _ **himself**_ _for a while. . . Probably do him some good."_

" _Sounds like tonight could be lots of fun," I said._

" _Care to join us?" Uncle George asked._

 _I shook my head. "I've gotta catch a flight back to D.C.: I'm turning in my resignation—retiring. I'm gonna bring an engagement ring for Darla back with me."_

" _Do her kids know?" Dad asked, concerned._

 _I nodded. "I met 'em yesterday. They had a few questions; but, overall, they were okay with the idea of Darla and me getting married. I think the nature of our past history kind of won them over."_

" _You were awfully good to her when she was a kid, Jack," Dad said._

" _I tried. I just wish I'd noticed how grown up she was at the end."_

" _Well, you can't turn back the clock, Jack—or the calendar—but you can make up for some of the time you've lost."_

" _That's what we're planning to do."_

" _So, when's the wedding?" asked Uncle George._

" _We haven't exactly set a date yet, but we're going to do it as soon as possible."_

" _Are we invited?" Dad queried._

" _Of course! Wouldn't be the same without you two."_

" _Uh, Dad . . ." said Mac._

" _Yes, son?"_

" _There's something_ _I_ _need to tell you . . ."_

" _About Jamie? –or about your undercover work for the NSA?"_

 _Mac's jaw dropped. "How did you . . ."_

" _I'm a newspaperman, Mac. I can find out just about anything: I have sources." He winked at me._

" _Jack, you didn't tell him yourself, did you?"_

 _I shook my head. "Nope. It comes as a surprise to_ _ **me**_ _that he already knew. . . And you were worried about what would happen if he found out . . . ."_

 _Dad looked at Mac askance. "You didn't trust me, Mac?"_

" _No, it's not that! It's just . . ._ _ **nobody**_ _knows I work undercover for the NSA. No one's_ _ **supposed**_ _to know. I was afraid I'd get into trouble with my superiors if they found out my cover wasn't secure."_

 _Dad laughed. "Don't worry about it, Mac. My source just happens to_ _ **be**_ _one of your superiors."_

" _What?!"_

" _Yes sir! . . . I can't tell you his name, though: that might cost_ **him** _**his**_ _job. He knows you're my son; and he wanted me to know what you've been doing, so that I could be as proud of you as I've always been of your brother. . . Now, Mac, I want you to know that I've_ _ **always**_ _been proud of you. There's never been a need for you to try to compete with Jack, or to try to be like him, or to be the exact opposite of him, or anything else. . . I've always loved you and cared about you for who and what you are—a unique individual. You're caring, courageous and intelligent. What more could a father want in a son?"_

 _There were tears in my brother's eyes. I smiled softly as I finished my trout._

" _Thanks, Dad. That means a lot," said Mac._

" _Now, aren't you glad you got out of bed and came up here, bro?" I asked._

" _Shut up, Jack!"_

" _Don't you two start," warned Uncle George, "or I'll knock your heads together."_

" _Yes, Uncle George," we said in unison._

 _I finished my trout, put my plate where all of the other dirty dishes were and stood up. "I guess I'd better head out. I've gotta make a plane reservation and get packed. Then I'm gonna call Darla and tell her goodbye."_

" _I thought you said your goodbyes last night," said Mac glibly._

" _We did. But, when it's time for you to return to L.A., are you gonna consider last night sufficient as a goodbye to Jamie?"_

" _I was just yanking your chain, Jack. I know you've gotta talk to Darla before you go. I understand completely. . . Yeah, I'll probably call Jamie before I leave town—which will_ _ **also**_ _be later today. I've gotta put in_ _ **my**_ _resignation, too. I'm moving back here. Jamie and I have decided we wanna keep dating."_

 _Dad and Uncle George looked at each other. "Better and better," Uncle George commented. "I have to admit, Pete: you were right about_ _ **those**_ _two, too."_

 _They then looked at me. "Give Darla our regards," said Dad. "Tell her she's forgiven, since everything turned out all right."_

" _More or less," Mac and I said together._

 _Dad and Uncle George laughed. "You see?" said Dad. "You spoke in unison. That proves it."_

 _Mac and I looked at each other and groaned. "You win, Dad. Mac and I have bonded. It wasn't easy, but we managed to find some common ground and develop a certain . . . grudging respect for each other."_

 _Mac added, "There probably won't be any more fighting or arguing between us, but that doesn't mean we won't still be giving each other a hard time now and then—like teasing, you know?"_

" _Hey," said Uncle George, "you boys might not realize it, but your father and I are also several years apart in age. I'm approaching seventy, and Pete here will be eighty on his next birthday, as you well know._ _ **We**_ _shoot barbs at each other from time to time, too, just not in front of other people. We keep our differences between us. I suggest you do the same."_

" _Amen!" said Dad._

" _We'll try, won't we, Mac?"_

" _I will if you will."_

 _Dad and Uncle George rolled their eyes and groaned. "Mac . . ." Dad scolded._

" _All right, all right. I'll try to be nicer to Jack."_

 _I smiled. "Attaboy, Mac. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I've got packing to do. I'll call each of you sometime next week. Take care, Dad, Uncle George. Mac, I'll see you back at the house."_

" _Yeah, Jack. I'll be there a little later. Dad and I have some catching up to do."_

" _Have fun."_

" _Bye, Jack," said Dad and Uncle George. I waved at them over my shoulder as I left._

 **(*)**

 _I made my flight reservations: I had to be at the airport by 2:45 in the afternoon. Then I packed my suitcase and my suit bag and put on my regular-duty uniform._

 _I had a few hours to kill, so I decided to give Darla a call and see if she had some time to spare._

" _Hi, Jack," she said. Her voice sounded happy. "Did you go up to Bear Log Hollow?"_

" _Yes, I did. Dad and Uncle George send their regards. I was right: they're going to stay there and wait for the raid to go down and invite the troopers to join them for s'mores."_

 _Darla laughed. "That sounds like your father!"_

" _Dad figures that if the troopers are thorough in their searching,_ _ **Shaun**_ _could end up being the one who gets arrested."_

" _That would be ironic, wouldn't it?" She sounded amused._

" _No more than he deserves, from what Dad and Uncle George told me. But, I didn't call to talk about my visit to the campsite. I'm catching a flight back to D.C. this afternoon, and I have some time to kill before then; so, I was wondering if you could spare an hour or two—"_

" _For you? Of course I can! You'll have to come here, though—just in case I'm needed. But we could go out to lunch at noon if you'd like . . ."_

" _I'd like—very much. Raven's Roost again?"_

" _Not necessarily. If you'd rather go someplace else, it's okay with me—as long as they serve American food."_

 _I smiled. "No Mexican, no Chinese, no Italian, no Indian . . ."_

" _Nope."_

" _Aw, what the heck . . . let's just go to Raven's Roost again. I'd like to try something else on the menu. In the meantime, I'm on my way. Keep your lips warm for me."_

 _It was just past ten o'clock by the time I pulled into the parking garage at the_ **Standard-Gazette**. _I whistled as I locked up the Cherokee and headed for the elevator. When I disembarked on the appropriate floor, I removed my cover and made a beeline for Darla's office._

 _As I drew near his desk, former lieutenant Lerner rose to his feet and snapped to attention again. "Lerner!" I barked. "At ease, man! I'm only wearing my uniform because I'm flying back to D.C. today._ _ **Good golly**_ _, don't you know how to leave the service gracefully?"_

 _Lerner reddened and stammered out an apology. "Sorry, Admiral. I guess I was a little_ _ **too**_ _well trained."_

 _I softened. "It's okay, son. But you'd better learn to be a civilian **fast**. If you don't, people are going to think you're a little . . . strange."_

" _They already do, sir. But I really am trying."_

" _Try harder." I looked at him sternly and continued on my way to Darla's office._

 _She was standing in the open doorway, smiling bemusedly. "Hi, sailor! Would you like some company?"_

 _I smiled back at her. "You bet I would! You offering?"_

 _She laughed. "Come on in, handsome. I've kept my lips warm for you . . ." She closed the door, but she left the Venetian blinds open this time. I guess she figured it was time everyone in the office knew that she and I had something going—not that there was any real doubt about it before; but, at least now they could see for themselves and say with absolute certainty that the boss lady and Mr. Beckham's son, the admiral, were an item. . .._

" _I'm going to miss you, Jack," she said after the first round of kisses._

" _Not half as much as I'm going to miss you. . . I'm not sure exactly how this whole . . . resigning my commission, retiring from the Navy, and quitting my job at Homeland is going to go down. Do I have to give two weeks' notice? Do I just fill out the paperwork, turn it in, and wait for word that my resignation's been accepted and my request for retirement approved? I really don't know. All I know is, I want out of there ASAP. I don't want to wait any longer than is absolutely necessary to make you my wife. As it is, we're gonna have to go through the whole marriage license thing . . . blood tests and all the rest of that rigmarole."_

" _Wherever we get married, we'll have to abide by the laws of that state," said Darla._

 _I sighed. "I wish we could just elope to Vegas. It'd save so much time and trouble . . ."_

 _Darla smiled. "Not to mention I'd be yours a whole lot sooner." She kissed my chin._

 _I kissed her nose. "That, too. Do you wanna get married here?"_

" _Why not? My parents could drive up and stay for a couple of days, and my kids could fly out here again. . . I know Joan and her family will want to come . . ."_

" _I promised Dad and Uncle George_ _ **they**_ _could come, too . . . After that—" I shrugged, "—we'll live wherever you like."_

 _She looked thoughtful. "How about Colorado Springs? Since your dad's here in Denver, and my folks are down in Pueblo, we'd be perfectly located. We'd be able to get to either city in a relatively short time. It's not quite as big and sprawling as Denver, either, so it'll be a little easier to get around."_

" _What about your kids and your grandkids? Are you sure you wanna be this far away from them on a permanent basis?"_

" _We'll fly out to Seattle and visit_ _ **them**_ _once in awhile, too. Right now, though, I think we need to focus on spending as much time as possible with our parents, since they're all getting up there in years. As much as I hate to think about it, any one of them could pass away at any time. I'd like to be close at hand, just in case."_

 _I nodded. "You're right. I don't like to think about it, either; but you_ _ **are**_ _right. So, how soon after the wedding do you want to move down there?"_

" _Why not immediately? I've already put my letter of resignation on your dad's desk; I just have to wait and see how soon he'll let me go. Once he does, I can concentrate on preparing for our wedding and finding a place for us to live. If he lets me go before you get back from D.C., I could spend time with a realtor, looking at houses that are for sale in Colorado Springs."_

" _No honeymoon?"_

 _She laughed. "One has nothing to do with the other, Jack. If I find us a house, we can get all of our stuff moved into it before the wedding; then we'll be able to settle right in as soon as we get home from . . . wherever you decide you want to take me."_

" _I get to choose?"_

 _She nodded. "Take me someplace you've been to that you really, really love and that you'd like to share with me . . . someplace_ _ **special**_ _."_

 _I smiled. "I know just the place . . . ." I was about to tell her where, but she put a finger to my lips._

" _Surprise me, Jack. As soon as we know for sure when the wedding's going to be, make the plane and hotel reservations and then tell me where we're going_ _ **after**_ _we get to the airport."_

 _I smiled. "I love you, Deej."_

 _She smiled back at me and said, "I seem to remember—on Tuesday evening, when you took me home after dinner and told me you loved me for the first time—I said something to the effect that I didn't expect you to say it again anytime soon." She shook her head. "I was_ _ **completely**_ _wrong. You've said it more than once_ _ **every**_ _ **day**_ _. I can hardly believe it of you, Jack."_

" _Honestly, neither can I. But the fact is, D., that what I feel for you is_ _ **so strong**_ _and_ _ **so powerful**_ _. . . I can't keep it in. If I_ _ **don't**_ _tell you I love you, I feel like I'm gonna burst. Really."_

" _I feel exactly the same way, Jack; I felt that way for years. It was torture, not being able to tell you, because I knew you didn't feel the same way about me. I didn't want to lose the relationship that I_ _ **did**_ _have with you by saying something you weren't prepared to hear."_

 _I put my hands on her cheeks and gazed into her eyes tenderly. "I'm sorry my insensitivity and blindness caused you so much pain, D. The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you. You were always special to me, regardless of the fact that I didn't always show it."_

" _I love you, Jack Beckham."_

 _I gathered her into my arms and kissed her more passionately than I had during the first round of warm . . ._ _greetings_ _—but not quite passionately enough to make her weak in the knees this time. I didn't want her to collapse like that with her employees looking on._

" _Is it lunchtime yet?" I asked softly as I withdrew my lips and gazed into her eyes again._

" _Maybe . . ."_

" _Then let's get going," I said in a husky voice. "I don't have a lot of time left."_

 **(**)**

While Jack and Darla were kissing, talking and making future plans, Dad and I had a nice long talk. It was the first time in a very **long** time that the two of us actually sat down together and truly communicated. It felt good.

Strangely enough, during the course of our conversation, I felt compelled to ask him what things were like between he and Jack all those years before I was born. I'd heard some of _**Jack's**_ side of it, but I wanted to know how _**Dad**_ felt.

He told me that Jack had always been headstrong—even as a child. He wanted to go his own way and "do [his] own thing," no matter what the consequences. The friends he'd had back then hadn't been a good influence on him, either, which is why he'd spent so much time in the principal's office. The leprechaun incident with Darla, however, had changed him.

It was a slow change at first, according to Dad. Jack was still a rowdy little troublemaker on the weekends, but never in front of Darla. She'd begun to look at him with hero-worship in her eyes, and he hadn't wanted to do anything in her presence that might disillusion her. He'd really _**enjoyed**_ playing the hero—it felt good; and the need grew inside of him to do _**more**_ _._

"So, Darla really did help turn him around, then?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, most definitely! After the leprechaun episode, he never again paid a visit to the principal's office. He started paying more attention to his grades and participated in sports."

"Baseball, hockey and track, right?"

"Primarily, although he was second string on the football team and a bench player on the basketball team, as well. Being on teams and working hard at everything he tried to do helped him develop self-discipline—without which he never would've gotten into the Naval Academy; and, having _**Darla**_ to care about made him more aware of the needs of others. He overcame a lot of his selfishness and became less self-centered because of her."

"It's a good thing he took an interest in her, then, since most kids are basically selfish by nature," I stated.

Dad nodded. "Yes, they are. Very few children who've been spoiled all their lives grow up to be thrifty, hard-working, responsible adults. When they've had everything given to them on a silver platter, they expect the _**entire**_ _**world**_ to treat them the same way." Dad shook his head. "It's become something of a social disease these days."

"I know. I've seen it way too often in L.A. Kids want a paycheck, but they don't want to do the work to earn it. It's sad."

"Yes, and your mother and I didn't want either you or Jack to turn out that way, which is why we decided—as good, responsible parents should do—not to indulge and spoil you. We did our best to teach you both the value of a dollar— _ **and**_ the merits of good, honest toil—by making you work to earn at least a _**portion**_ of the money that it took to buy the more expensive 'toys' you wanted."

"Well, it certainly worked. Expensive things are more appreciated—and taken better care of—if you have to pay for them yourself . . . or if you have to struggle in some way to get them."

"That's precisely the point," said Dad. "I've seen too many toys broken within a day or two of being received—even as Christmas or birthday gifts. A lot of children need to _**work**_ to earn something before they truly appreciate its value; and when they do, they're more willing to take good care of it."

"You've made your point successfully, Dad. . . Now, what about all those campouts the two of you went on together. . .?"

"Oh, gosh!" said Dad. "The campouts! Where shall I begin?"

I shrugged. "At the beginning, I guess . . ."

"Well, yes, but, it's not really as simple as that. . . You see, son, during Jack's rowdier years, your mother came up here, too. Jack behaved better for her than he did for me. She was Mom, after all. . . She did _**everything**_ for him: washed and ironed his clothes; fixed his meals; bought or made him his favorite snacks and desserts; nursed him when he was sick . . . even took him breakfast in bed if he wasn't throwing up. (She also made him clean his room and get his homework done, but _**those**_ were orders he _**accepted**_. On the other hand, though, the things _**I**_ made him do weren't offset by things that _**I**_ did for _**him**_.) . ..

"What Jack didn't realize back then is that it's part of a woman's _**calling**_ as a mother to nurture and care forher children and to teach them to be honest and upright. (Mothers seem to have a knack for knowing when a child is lying to them, which gives them an edge when it comes to teaching their children the value of honesty.) Fathers can—and should—reinforce the mother's lessons in honesty and integrity; but _**their**_ primary responsibility is to teach their children how to make a living and how to survive as an adult in this crazy, mixed up world. At home, I taught Jack all about making a living; on the campouts I taught him survival skills. Kids never fully appreciate those things until they grow up and start trying to make their way in the world."

"So, the campouts were one of the ways you had of trying to teach Jack a few things."

"Yes, they were. There are a lot of things a boy can learn when camping out. You and I came up here a few times, too. You must remember _**some**_ of what I taught you . . ."

"Yes, I do; but I didn't take to it the way Jack did. He still _**loves**_ camping; I don't. I always hated the invasions of bugs, bears and belligerent, begging birds—and overcooked eggs and burnt bacon. I prefer a well-stocked kitchen, indoor plumbing, and a comfy bed with a good, firm pillow. I'd rather be _**indoors**_ , safe from prowling wildlife; and only _**occasionally**_ bothered by biting and/or stinging insects."

"And yet," said Dad with mild amusement, "you spend a lot of time out in the open, pretending to be a nature lover."

I smiled crookedly and said, "Ironic, isn't it?" Then I sighed. "But that's my life—for now, anyway. I'm about to give all that up, though, and look for a job _**here**_ _._ I'm not sure yet what I'm going to do, but I'm considering applying for a desk job at Homeland. Jack said he'd put in a good word for me."

"His word should carry a lot of weight; and, since he's planning to leave Homeland himself, nepotism shouldn't be a problem."

"That's what _I_ was thinking. For now, though, I'd better head back to the house, finish packing, and hit the road. I'd like to get at least a third of the way to L.A. before I stop for the night." I stood up and reached out a hand to my father. He took it and made it clear that, rather than shaking hands with me, he wanted me to help him to his feet. "Thanks for the talk, Dad," I said as I pulled him up off the boulder he'd been sitting on. "I have a greater appreciation now for you and Mom—and _**Darla**_. Jack wouldn't've turned out as well as he did if _**all**_ of you hadn't been a part of his life."

Dad wrapped his arms around me in a fatherly hug. "Take care, son . . . and don't forget to give Jamie a call before you leave town. I like that young lady. She'd be good for you."

"I know. I like her, too—a lot. Take care, Dad. Uncle George—"

Uncle George was asleep; our conversation must've grown tedious to him. He was lying on his thin air mattress, his hat over his eyes, snoring away. "Tell him I said goodbye. I'll call you when I get to L.A. You'll probably be down off this mountain by then. Bye, Dad."

I strolled to my old, beat-up, red Jeep, climbed in, started it, and left. This was a day and a conversation I would remember for many years to come.

 **(***)**

 _I don't remember what I had for lunch that day at Raven's Roost. All I could do was sit there and pick at my food, gazing longingly across the table at Darla._

 _I couldn't believe how much my life had changed in just a few days! The greatest miracle of all was that, after all these years, Darla still loved me. Even now I could hardly believe it._

" _You're awfully quiet, Jack," she commented._

" _I'm just a little depressed," I said._

 _She smiled a sort of sad-soft smile. "I'm going to miss you, too," she said._

 _I smiled back at her. "I know. I just wish I knew how long . . ."_

 _She nodded. "Me, too. Just . . . call me, as soon as you know."_

" _I will. I hope they don't make me stay more than two weeks."_

" _So do I. And I hope your dad doesn't take forever to choose my replacement."_

 _I shook my head. "I don't think that'll happen. And, while he's at it, I have a feeling he's gonna replace_ _ **himself**_ _, too—as_ _ **publisher**_ _. I don't think he's ready to_ _ **sell**_ _the paper yet; but, since he's turning eighty on his next birthday, he_ _ **might**_ _consider taking a less active role in the decision-making process."_

 _Darla nodded. "I hope so. I've seen his face when he's had some weighty decisions to make. He looks kind of . . . gray . . . and . . . a little dyspeptic. I think it's getting to be a bit too much for him. I told him I thought he should slow down, but he said he was fine. He didn't_ _ **look**_ _fine, though."_

" _Maybe now, with Mac and me both moving back here to Colorado, he_ _ **will**_ _retire and start taking it a little easier."_

" _I'll talk to him about it when he calls me into his office to discuss my resignation."_

" _Be gentle."_

" _Jack, would I ever say or do anything to hurt your dad?"_

" _Not intentionally, no."_

 _She crossed her heart and said, "I'll be diplomatic, I promise."_

" _I'm gonna hold you to that." I sighed. "Let's get out of here. I've gotta get to the airport soon, and I'd like to say a final, proper goodbye before I go."_

 _She nodded. "I think the Cherokee's roomy enough for that."_

 _I looked at her in mild surprise. "Really? The parking garage?"_

 _She nodded again. "Why not?"_

" _Well," I considered, "I suppose we could move to the back seat . . ."_

 _She smiled. "You should've just traded it in on one without a stick shift, like you said."_

" _Yeah, well . . . since I didn't, the back seat is our next best option—if you insist on making out in the Cherokee."_

" _I haven't made out in a car in . . . oh, gees!—years!"_

" _Having kids kinda puts a crimp in things, doesn't it?"_

 _She looked thoughtful. "Kids do tend to change your life; and, the more kids you have, the more and the greater the changes."_

" _I'll have to take your word for that; but I imagine it's true."_

 _She stood up. "Let's go, then, Admiral. Time is a-wastin'."_

 **(****)**

It was nearing lunchtime by the time I got to the think tank. I parked in the visitor parking lot and went inside. Jamie came down from her lab a few minutes after she was notified of my arrival.

"Mac! I thought you were heading home today!"

"I am. I just wanted to see you one more time before I go. I'm not sure how long it'll be before I can come back here. I don't know what . . . _**my**_ _ **employer's**_ policy is in regard to termination. Hopefully, though, I won't have to stay longer than two weeks, but . . . I just don't know."

"Do you think you could . . . call me, while you're in L.A.?"

"I was gonna ask you if I could. I mean, I'd really _**like**_ to . . ."

She nodded—almost enthusiastically. "Please!"

I nodded, too. "Okay. I'll call you every night. What time?"

"Eight o'clock my time, I think, would be best—seven Pacific. Will that work for you? Or do you need to call a little earlier?—or later?"

"I might need to call later . . . sometimes; it depends on how my days go. I just wanna be sure that, if I _**do**_ have to call later in the evening, you won't be asleep or anything."

"I don't usually go to bed until around ten-thirty or eleven—which is nine-thirty or ten in L.A."

I smiled. "Good! Great! That'll give me a _**huge**_ window of opportunity."

She nodded. We just stood there, then, looking at each other. Unlike Jack and Darla, we didn't yet have enough between us to be entirely comfortable and at ease with one another. I decided it was time I left. I was about to say so when Jamie asked, "Would you like to have lunch before you leave?"

"Same place?—across the street?"

"Yes," she said, nodding. "It _**is**_ closest, and my time is somewhat limited. I'm sorry—"

"It's okay. I understand. It doesn't matter that much, anyway. I don't think I'll even notice the food."

"Me neither."

I held out my arm and she took it, smiling softly. However long I had to remain in L.A., I knew it would seem ten times as long as it really was . . .


	23. Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

It didn't take nearly as long as I'd thought it would to get everything settled in L.A.—not even with my superiors at the NSA. When they found out I had a girlfriend back in Denver, they understood; and when I told them that my brother, Admiral Beckham at Homeland Security, had suggested I apply for a job there, they said they'd put in a good word for me. It was almost _**unbelievable**_ how cooperative and upfront they were about everything. It was a genuine relief!

Saying goodbye to my various environmentalist friends was . . . different. I had a lot of them, and none of them wanted me to go. But, when I told them I'd met someone back home in Denver, it was all I could do to keep them from shoving me out the door. If there's anything environmentalists believe in as much as they do protecting the environment, it's love and romance. They all wished me good luck and Godspeed and said I'd better invite each and every one of them to the wedding, but not to be too upset if they didn't show up. They did, after all, have commitments to the environment, and Denver was a long way away. . . Yeah. . . So much for lifelong friendships . . .

I took a desk job at Homeland, with the stipulation that I be allowed to quit at anytime. I wanted that clause just in case things got dicey because of my dating Jamie. As I'd said before, security personnel might get concerned when two government employees are having a serious relationship. So, if it ever looked like it was going to be a problem, I'd leave Homeland and find something else to do with my various abilities.

Oh, and by the way, I was completely upfront with Homeland about my NSA undercover work, and my superiors at the NSA _**did**_ put in a good word for me, as promised. As a result, the folks at Homeland wanted me to do undercover work for _**them**_ ; but I flat out told them no. I didn't wanna do that anymore. They respected my decision and let it go.

I also told them all about Jamie and that we were dating. I let them know that they were welcome to do any kind of a background check on either one or both of us at anytime and neither of us would kick up a fuss. If they ever became suspicious of us or any of our activities, I, for one, would leave the government's employ and rejoin the private sector. I could not, however, speak for Jamie; but I sincerely hoped it would never become an issue. So far it hasn't . . . that I know of. So, Jamie and I are scheduled to be married in January. Thanks, Dad—for everything.

Your turn, Jack . . .

 **(*)**

 _So . . . the wrap-up. Yeah. I had to stay an entire_ _ **month**_ _in D.C., so Darla and I got all our paperwork for the marriage license done while I was gone. She told me what I needed, I got it taken care of, and she turned in the completed application._

 _By the time I got back to Denver, she had found us a nice, split-level, four-bedroom home in Colorado Springs. It had an office in the basement that she had set up for us to use as our "writers' room". It also had a two-car garage, which we intended to actually use for our cars._

 _The wedding was scheduled to take place the first week in August, and Mac agreed to be my Best Man. "This is a big step up from being ring bearer," I told him. "You'd better not lose the ring!" He, of course, took umbrage, so we got into a mild argument; but, Darla and Jamie put an immediate stop to it. Anyway, it was just a make-believe fight. We don't argue for real much at all anymore. . . Getting along with each other has kind of taken some of the fun out of life. . .._

 _I was half-right about Dad: He_ _ **did**_ _retire from the paper, but he_ **sold** _it, too—to the same guy who bought and refurbished the drive-in movie theater. Dad had already let Darla go by then and had given Walter Siler, the managing editor, her job as editor-in-chief; and Joe—the associate editor whom she had wanted to be her replacement—was made the managing editor. But the job of publisher was left up to the new owner to fill. He asked Dad to stay on as publisher until he could find someone with the proper credentials to fill the job. It took about four months._

 _Over a two-day period prior to getting married, Darla and I moved all of our furniture and most of our other belongings into our new home in Colorado Springs. Darla had already sold her condo and was rooming with Jamie until after the wedding._

 _Darla's parents came up from Pueblo and stayed with Joan and her family. Mr. McIntyre rented a van to help Darla get moved. Dad, Mac, Uncle George and Joan's husband, Dave, helped out, too._

 _My stuff was shipped from D.C. in a moving van, which, providentially, arrived at the new house right on schedule. If it hadn't, we would've been forced to postpone leaving on our honeymoon for a day or two, which_ _ **really**_ _would've messed things up._

 _Darla's kids and grandkids all came to the wedding, along with the aforementioned family members who helped with the moving. Her brother Terry was a no-show, but that didn't surprise anyone, although his ex-wife, Beth, and their kids showed up. She and the rest of the family still had a bond, regardless of Terry's current behavior._

 _The years had not been kind to Beth. Looking at her now, it was hard to believe she'd ever been a cheerleader—never mind the prettiest and most popular one. I was glad I'd never let my drinking get that out of hand, or I wouldn't've gotten where I was now, with Darla at my side. She's more than worth any and every sacrifice I might be called upon to make._

 _We had the wedding in the church our families had both gone to when we were kids. There was a different pastor by now, of course, but that didn't much matter. He was a nice enough guy and knew our parents, even if he didn't know us. Darla and I opted for traditional wedding vows, with the modern replacement of "obey" with "cherish." I didn't object. If I ever got out of line, I wouldn't_ _ **want**_ _Darla to obey me. But I knew darned well she'd_ _ **always**_ **cherish** _me—as I would her._

 _Not being a first-time bride, Darla chose not to wear a wedding gown—of_ _ **any**_ _color. She wore instead a midi-length dress of ecru, with lots of lace and beads and . . . I won't even_ _ **try**_ _to describe it in detail. It was beautiful;_ _ **she**_ _was beautiful. She had a matching hat with a half-veil that only half-covered her face—pretty much just her eyes and the top half of her nose. But, it was enough of a veil for me to lift before kissing her, anyway. I rented a nice tux, similar to the one Mac had worn to the weddings of some of his tree-hugging friends in L.A. It felt weird, not wearing my dress whites; but, since I had retired from the Navy, I was no longer authorized to wear the uniform._

 _Darla was kind of sad about that, but_ _ **I**_ _wasn't. Even though I knew she liked the way I looked in it, I didn't want to pay the price of having to stay in the service for even_ _ **one more week**_ _. It was time for me to move on. After a gentle heart-to-heart, Darla came to understand that . . . or so I thought. . .._

 _Sometime after we returned from our honeymoon, I walked into our bedroom and found Darla in the closet (it was a walk-in), gazing at and caressing my dress whites—which were enveloped in plastic wrap—and sighing wistfully. I said, "Oh, D.!" and took her in my arms. "If you miss it that much, I'll put it on for you. All you had to do is ask!"_

 _So, every now and then I get into one of my uniforms: sometimes the summer whites (with shorts); sometimes the navy-blues; sometimes the khakis; and sometimes the dress-whites, depending on Darla's mood and the time of year. It's an indulgence I don't mind giving in to . . . not that I'd ever deny Darla anything: she never has and probably never would ask for something unreasonable. She's too practical for that._

 _I took her to Jamaica for our honeymoon. I'd never been there myself, despite the fact that she'd asked me to take her somewhere that I'd already been and that I really, really loved. But, everything I'd seen or heard about Jamaica drew me to it. So we went . . . and it was great. Of course, just about_ _ **anyplace**_ _where there wasn't a war going on would've been great, as long as Darla and I were together. We stayed for two months. It made me glad I was almost rich. . .._

 _After we returned to Colorado, we did some serious house- and repair work. (Our "new" house was over thirty years old and seriously needed it.) It was a great way for me to keep busy and not miss being employed quite so much._

 _Once we got the house thoroughly clean and in good repair, we went to work writing our books. I hadn't realized what a tremendous undertaking it was going to be. I told Darla my stories, and then we worked together to fictionalize them. It didn't take "Admiral Carter" long to take on a life of his own. His character was well defined. I like him; so do a lot of other people. . . Darla says_ _ **she**_ _likes_ _ **me**_ _better, but she'd say that anyway, even if it wasn't true. She's like that._

 _I moved my planes to a small airport in Colorado Springs, and I take Darla flying occasionally. We fly up to Denver or down to Pueblo from time to time to visit our folks. Someone is always at the airport to pick us up, so we don't have to rent a vehicle. Once winter begins to set in, however, I'll lock the planes away and we'll drive to the home of whichever of our parents we plan to spend Thanksgiving or Christmas with. We've decided to alternate between the two each year. This year we'll be spending Thanksgiving with my dad and Christmas with the McIntyres; next year we'll reverse it._

 _So, I guess that's about it for us. We're here . . . in Colorado Springs . . . living happily ever after—not something I ever imagined would happen to me. But I owe it all to Dad and to an insidious plot he cooked up to help Mac and me find fraternity . . . which we finally did._

 _ **THE END** _

_. . . sort of . . ._


End file.
